Shadowdance

SHADOWDANCE

ROBIN WAYNE BAILEY

SHADOWDANCE Copyright ©1996 by Robin Wayne Bailey All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, without the written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews. The characters and events described in this book are fictional. Any resemblance between the characters and any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The mention of or reference to any companies or products in these pages is not a challenge to the trademarks or copyrights concerned. Because of the mature themes presented within, reader discretion is advised. White Wolf is committed to reducing waste in publishing. For this reason, we do not permit our covers to be "stripped" for returns, but instead require that the whole book be returned, allowing us to resell it. COVER ILLUSTRATION: PAUL LEE DESIGN: MICHAEL SCOTT COHEN Borealis is an imprint of White Wolf Publishing. WHITE WOLF PUBLISHING 780 PARK NORTH BOULEVARD, SUITE 100 CLARKSTON, GA 30021 PRINTED IN CANADA

For Stephen Pagel with more thanks than I can say; For Scott Tansey, who was there when I began this, and John Leininger, who danced by as I finished; For Diana, who saved my life by teaching me my first dance movements; And for Louis Falco, Robert Joffrey, Murray Louis, Yuriko, Loyce Holton, Ann Brekke, Jean Ford, and others, who through their instructions certainly saved my soul.

AT MIDNIGHT'S BELL ALL SLEEPING SOULS RISE UP ENTRANCED, To PRANCE ACROSS THE NIGHTED WORLD; THEY WHIRL AND LEAP AND, SHRIEKING, FLY AND FLY AROUND THE MOON UNTIL THEY SWOON AND TUMBLE DOWN TO HELL— WHICH IS THEIR MORTAL SHELL REJOINED. AND WAKING, SOME REMEMBER WITH A TIMID SHAKING How A DREAM IS BUT A DREAM, NO MORE. BUT YOU AND I, WHO LOVE TO FLY, EMBRACE THE DARK WITH JUBILANCE AND FLING OURSELVES EACH NICHT INTO THIS SHADOWDANCE. FOR WHAT IS EARTHLY WALKING, RUNNING? WHEN A CUNNING MUSIC CALLS WE FALL INTO A METRONOMIC TRANCE, ASCEND WITH A GRACEFUL SPIN, AND BEGIN TO SHADOWDANCE.

Robin Wayne Bailey

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CHAPTER 1 INNOWEN DRAGGED HIS crippled body desperately through the darkness and the mud, ignoring the chill, whipping wind and the rain that pelted him. His hands were sore and bloodied from pine needles and thorns and sharp stones. Still, his fingers dug into the road, seeking purchase as he hauled himself a few more painful inches, stripping more flesh from elbows already raw and oozing. His breath came in ragged gasps; he cried out again and again for help, but through the thunder and relentless deluge, his voice came as a weak and pathetic whimper. Who's there to hear me, anyway? he thought forlornly. Yet for the sake of his guardian he cried out, hurling his shouts against the tempest as he dragged himself with piteous determination through the miserable night. A blast of lightning, a cobalt flare bright enough to penetrate the tangled canopy of leaves and branches, tore open the sky. For an instant, Innowen saw the narrow road stretching before him and the trees on either side that loomed like mighty soldiers of an era before the Age of Man. Help me, he begged them. Help Drushen! Don't let him die! If only I had legs to run for help! Darkness closed in again. Thunder ruptured the heavens, and a wind ripped through the forest. At first, in that rasping rustle, he thought the trees had answered his prayer and torn themselves from their roots, that they would sweep him up from the mud and, awakened from an ancient hibernation, march to Drushen's aid. But that was only fever or a moment's wild dream. Neither spirits nor gods answered men so easily. Save for the deafening crashes and the rain and his useless cries, the forest kept its silence. He couldn't stop a gush of tears. He didn't know how much time Drushen had, how fast the venom in his veins would work. If only Innowen had legs to run! The village of Shandisti was not too far for a man with legs. Or Lord Minarik's keep; his soldiers might help. But Innowen's legs were worthless. Filled with despair and self-loathing, he pounded his fist against the road, splashing mud in his face and eyes. Without Drushen, he would be alone in the world. How would he get by? He shouted again with a force that left his throat raw. Help me, help! But not a soul traveled the forest road on such a night as this, and if any gods rode the wind, they offered him no solace. For Drushen's sake, he swallowed his fear as best he could and struggled on his belly toward the village, eating the mud that filled his mouth, wiping rain from his face, with only the

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_________________________________________________ lightning to show him the road. Half a man, that's all he was. Not even that; barely a man at all. He hated himself for his useless legs and for his tears, all his weakness. Now he hated the world because soon Drushen would die, and he, Innowen, would be left alone. On the verge of exhaustion, he used that hatred like a whip to lash himself onward. Weeping, he dragged his body another inch, clinging to the barest shred of hope while a small part of him prayed. If Drushen dies, let me die, too, here, exposed in the storm. In heaven, they would be together again, and Drushen would take care of him forever. "Look here, my lady." A deep voice said suddenly out of the night. "Quite a worm we've found wriggling in the mud." Innowen looked up just as a bright flash tore open the night and stung his eyes. For an instant, fear gripped his heart, but that emotion yielded suddenly to wild hope as a pair of riders splashed cautiously out of the darkness. After-images of the lightning dazzled his vision, and he wiped a hand over his eyes. A huge white horse stopped so close that its hooves splattered him with mud. Raising up on his elbows, he stared in wonder at the leather breast strap so richly studded with gold and silver, at the elegantly worked bridle that tinkled with bells and precious glimmering jewels. With an impatient snort, the horse shook its streaming mane, then lowered its head as if to investigate him. He saw the horse's rider perched high on a soft, beautifully woven cloth-of-gold riding pad. Just as suddenly, he perceived the eerie glow that surrounded her and lent gleam to the gems and luster to the metals on her tack. A warm, wondrous pool of light spread on the ground around her. Innowen felt it like a gentle wave on his skin. Her hair shone with the same golden light, and it spilled over her shoulders. Her eyes, though, were black, full of a darkness so deep it shamed the night. There was no color in her cheeks, but her lips were redder than roses. They turned upward in a strange smile. One hand parted the folds of her cloak and fluttered to her throat, while her ivory breasts strained against the white silk of her gown. Upon that tender flesh, a ruby hung on a thin chain. It seemed to Innowen that the jewel burned with an inner fire and throbbed with something not unlike hunger. Innowen caught his breath, unable to move or speak. He had seen few women in his life, and none at all like this one. The heart sprang out of him; he loved her at once. Yet he feared her, too, for he knew her name. In all of Ispor there could only be one such woman. He gazed upon the Witch of Shanalane. When she spoke, her voice was a velvet caress: "Vashni, get down and see what this is. If it really is a boy, then it's either mute or afraid of us." The red blossom of her mouth opened in a smile, exposing small, perfect ivory thorns. "We won't harm you, boy," she said, but her words didn't reassure Innowen. A deeper rumbling answered the Witch. "I still think it's a worm, mistress". _________________________________________________ 2

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_________________________________________________ Innowen recoiled as a huge demon rode out of the Witch's shadow on the largest, blackest mare he had ever seen. Lightning glistened on the creature's breastplate and greaves, which were made of black leather and fitted with rings of burnished bronze. As the demon swung down to the ground, Innowen saw the immense sword belted over one hip and the helm bound with a leather strap to his other. Dark braids tumbled over the demon's shoulders as he bent low, grasped Innowen's arm, and tried to jerk him to his feet. Innowen gave a sharp cry of pain as his shoulder nearly separated from its socket, and another as Vashni, reacting in surprise, dropped him. The muddy road rushed up to meet him as he fell helplessly. "He's lame," Vashni commented without emotion, looking down upon Innowen, who struggled up onto one bruised elbow. A grim smirk lifted the corners of the demon's mouth. "A poor night for a walk, anyway." "Enough of your rudeness," his mistress ordered. The Witch of Shanalane turned her dark-eyed gaze fully upon Innowen, and he froze, unable to look away. A shiver passed through him. Drushen, the storm, the forest, his anguish, all other thoughts suddenly dissolved. Only those eyes, of all else in the world, held any meaning for him. She's drinking my life, he thought through a strange; blissful haze. His vision blurred, his senses swam, and he felt himself becoming tenuous and thin. Let her. I give it willingly. But then she let him go—if, indeed, it had not all been his imagination. He shook his head and wiped rain from his eyes. "We heard your wails even over the storm," she said. Her voice sounded sweeter, richer than the bells that jingled on her bridle. "Are you lost, boy?" His face burned suddenly with shame: he had forgotten Drushen. "My guardian is dying," he stammered, wishing with all his soul that he could stand on his feet to speak to this lady. Plainly, she didn't deserve her reputation. The aura that surrounded her was surely the golden light of goodness. Here was no thing of evil. He beheld no witch, but a goddess. Innowen swallowed hard and continued, the words rushing from him. "He went to gather logs from the woodpile at dinnertime, and a serpent bit his hand. He barely made it back to the cabin before collapsing. I touched his skin—it was so cold! I had to try to get help, but as you see, I can only crawl. Then, this storm came up so fast!" Innowen broke down again and sobbed freely. "He may be dead by now, but please, Lady. Drushen is all I've got in this world!" Under her steadfast gaze, he felt like a bug pinned in the mud, like the worm for which Vashni had taken him. Again, unwanted tears sprang from his eyes, and he hung his head. "Mistress," the demon said in a bare whisper, "the soldiers..." The Witch's words came like shards of ice that froze the air. "The soldiers are my worry." _________________________________________________ 3

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_________________________________________________ Vashni dared to say no more. He turned away, but he looked back just long enough to glare at Innowen with eyes of pure menace. The Witch put a finger to her lips, considering. Her brow furrowed ever so slightly in a way that did not mar her beauty. "Put him over your horse," she said at last to the demon. "We'll see if his Drushen is alive or dead." Innowen raised up on his hands and lifted his head as high as he could. "Thank you, Lady, thank you! Please, let's hurry!" Before he could say another word, the breath rushed from him as Vashni seized the rope belt around his waist and jerked him from the mud. Innowen flushed with anger, feeling as if he'd been cut in two, as the demon heaved him roughly over the black mare's withers. What must the Lady think to see him treated like a piece of meek baggage! And the demon used no riding pad, but rode bareback. A sweaty froth coated the mare's hide, unpleasant and creamy warm against his skin. Innowen bit his tongue to keep from crying out or protesting. He'd found help for Drushen. Only that mattered. For his guardian's sake he kept silent. A wrong word and they might shove him back in the mud. Where would he be then? Where would his guardian be? The Witch of Shanalane addressed him: "Do you live down this road, boy?" Innowen started to snap. He was no boy. But then he mastered himself. He could not be angry with such a lady. From his awkward position, he did his best to look up. "Yes, that way. Just off the road you'll see a narrow path. Drushen is a woodcutter, and we live in the deepwoods." A burst of lightning illuminated the forest, and the wind suddenly bent the trees until timbers cracked and splintered. Innowen stared, wide-eyed, as a strange realization struck him. He held up his hands. "The rain!" he cried. "It's not touching us!" The Witch smiled as she waited for Vashni to swing onto his horse and guide his mount up beside her. Innowen found himself nose to knee with this strange woman, and her scent swam intoxicatingly in his nostrils. "Of course not," she said. "It's my storm. It's supposed to slow my enemies, not ruin my garments. What's your name, boy?" He swallowed again and told her. "Innowen," she repeated with a small laugh. "Like Innocent." She looked toward Vashni, and Innowen heard the demon's low-throated chuckle. "Well, hold tight, my Innocent. We'll waste no time reaching your guardian." He didn't get a chance to answer or to protest the nickname. Boy was bad enough, but Innocent! Vashni's huge mount lurched forward, bouncing him painfully on the demon's knee. Again, the breath rushed out of him with a whoosh; starry lights burst dizzyingly in his vision, and tears burned his eyes. Still he felt good. Soon, he would be at Drushen's side again. He hadn't failed his dearest and only friend.

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_________________________________________________ This time he had won a victory over his crippled, useless body, and his heart swelled with pride. They raced with bone-jarring speed. Mud splashed up toward his face, never quite touching him. The storm smashed the forest, beat the branches of the trees until they hung thick with water. Yet no drop of rain dampened his skin. The wind was a different matter. It stung his flesh and pulled his hair. He tried to look ahead, but he couldn't bear its force directly in his eyes. It filled his ears with a terrible rushing roar as it whipped past. The horse's motion made breathing difficult. Innowen bounced helplessly, held in place only by Vashni's huge right hand, which pressed into the small of his back. Innowen's lungs burned until he feared he would cry out. Instead, he choked and gasped for what little air he could draw and bit his lip against any sound or outcry. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed the Lady. Far ahead, she glowed like a wild torch in the darkness. Her hair streamed, and her cloak flowed behind her. At a bend in the road, her horse slipped in the treacherous muck, nearly unseating her, but she recovered easily, and her unexpected laughter drifted back to him like cymbals and wild bells on the night air. Never in his young life had Innowen met anyone like her, and he knew in that instant that he loved her with all his heart. He couldn't explain his passion, and he wondered if it might be some strange magic. But he knew it with certainty. Caught up in wonder, he almost missed the boulder and the old tree that marked the path to his cottage. The Witch of Shanalane sped past them. Only the strange radiance that surrounded her gave Innowen any warning as, for just an instant, his landmarks stood illuminated against the gloom. "Wait!" he cried. "To the right! Take the path!" The Witch seemed not even to slow. She jerked on her jeweled reins and wheeled her steed in an impossible circle. Into the thicket, she briefly disappeared. Then, her light could be seen winking between the trunks and the branches and the leaves. Nothing restrained her speed. Innowen marveled at her courage. The woods were thick along the path. A low limb would certainly sweep her from the animal's back. Didn't she care? Vashni's hand pressed him down with greater force as they, too, turned onto the path. The world spun crazily for a moment, and Innowen thought the black mare had slipped. He screamed and dug his fingers into Vashni's leg. The huge demon only chuckled as he crouched low over Innowen, bringing his face close to the horse's neck as they plunged into the woods. The forest closed around them, but the canopy of leaves seemed less dense than Innowen thought it should be. There were no limbs to menace them, no roots to trip them. He knew the path well; Drushen had often carried him along it to the road where they would meet and chat with travelers. But now the way was clear. The trees seemed to bend away, to part for them.

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_________________________________________________ Just ahead stood the cottage. Firelight trickled through the cracks of worn shutters and through the partially opened door. The Lady had arrived before them. Her mount waited untethered, breathing heavily. Her shadow moved within the cottage. Vashni jerked his own horse to a halt, flung his leg over Innowen's head, and jumped down. He hauled the boy down and tossed him over one shoulder. At last, Innowen dared to protest—uselessly. The demon kicked the door open wider with the toe of his boot, glanced around disdainfully at the furnishings, and grunted before he deposited his squirming burden on a stool that stood beside a rickety table. In the darkest corner of the cottage, a figure sprawled on the only bed. The Witch stood over it. Innowen noticed immediately that her strange 'glow was gone. "Drushen?" he whispered, afraid his guardian might already be dead. "Drushen?" "Shut up," the Witch ordered quietly. "He's very weak. We're almost too late." Drushen struggled up onto one elbow. Ropes of black -hair turning gray clung to his sweatdrenched face. His moist eyes gleamed as he looked past the Witch and spied his charge. "Child, my child," he managed thickly. "I feared the storm had claimed you." He clutched suddenly at the Witch's sleeve and pulled her closer. "Take care of my Innowen, please! He needs someone. I beg you!" The Witch gently pushed Drushen back on the bed. "Hush. You'll care for him yourself." She tore away the sleeve of the old man's tunic and lifted his arm to better see the puncture marks of the serpent's sting, two tiny wounds just above the right wrist. Abruptly, she called to her demonic companion. "Vashni, get a better fire going in that hearth. I need warmth and light, and these few candles aren't enough." She gestured at the two sticks on the mantle with their pathetic flames. "Then bring my smaller riding bag. You know which one." Vashni obeyed at once. Without a word, he gathered logs from a basket that sat near the door, thrust them into the hearth, and began to prod and stir the coals. The Witch unlaced her cloak and started to cast it aside. Then, noticing Innowen on his stool, she changed her mind. "You're shivering," she observed, draping the expensive garment over him. "Don't worry, my Innocent," she whispered. "The old man will live. The bite is a bad one, but the venom hasn't yet reached his heart." Innowen only nodded. He was back in his familiar cottage, the one-room world which made up most of his existence, and he had found help for Drushen. Although rainwater dripped from strands of his hair and ran into his eyes, and mud slicked his clothes and skin, he found comfort in these surroundings and security in the presence of this Lady who had stolen his heart. He watched her move, dimly aware when flames began to crackle in the fireplace and the room began to warm. The Witch tied back her hair and never glanced his way as she worked. He couldn't see what she did, but she put her mouth to Drushen's arm several times and kissed his wound. She made a poultice of water and hot ash, and she stripped bandages from the sheet beneath Drushen's body. Sometimes her hands seemed to glow, but Innowen was unsure if that was magic or just the firelight on her ivory flesh.

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_________________________________________________ Vashni returned with her riding bag. In the brighter firelight, Innowen saw he was no demon at all, and he sullenly chided himself for his fear. Beyond a doubt, though, Vashni was the largest man he had ever seen. Far bigger even than Drushen, who bulged with muscle from his wood-cutting. His garments, kilt and breastplate, greaves and arm braces, all glimmered with studs and rings of copper and bronze. The short, embroidered sleeves of a black linen tunic showed from under his armor. And that huge bronze sword still hung sheathed at his right hip. He had seemed a demon in the storm, with lightning glimmering on all that metal. Innowen had never seen such armor before. Nor had he ever encountered a man he would have called beautiful. He dared to study Vashni's face. The features were perfect, though marked by a hardness that bordered on cruelty. His mouth was a thin cut above the chin, and his brows seemed to crag over deep-set dark eyes that glittered like splinters of black ice. But for the pair of braids, his hair was chopped close, and a short-trimmed beard colored his cheeks. The Witch took the bag from his hand, opened it, and extracted a small wooden figurine. From a sheath at her belt she withdrew a small dagger and began to carve. The firelight rippled on the sharp copper blade as she worked, and Innowen leaned forward on the table to see better. But she turned, blocking his view, and quickly finished. She looked from the doll to Drushen, then touched it to his forehead and heart. With two quick motions, she stabbed the figurine's right arm, kissed its new wounds, and cast it into the fire. The old man never made a sound. His eyes stayed closed in apparent sleep. Innowen sagged against the wall, sure at last that his guardian would be all right. The Witch had said so, and he had watched her work some charm. I love her, he thought again. He didn't understand, but he knew it without a doubt. Everything about her fascinated him. She was new and refreshing, and she made his world seem new as well. The cottage felt warmer, the furniture looked more elegant. The very woodgrain in the old walls seemed sharper and more vivid. He inhaled the air, and it tasted like the rarest essence. The snapping crackle of the flames made a music. The fire shimmered. Her shadow! It danced upon the walls and the ceiling, going where it would, spinning and leaping whenever she moved, flitting around the cottage like an independent soul. The shadow glided delicately and with a strange quality, a kind of magical dance-for-two that only he seemed to witness. The Lady's every gesture embodied grace as she went about her healings, but her motions were brusque and purposeful. Her shadow, though, was a piece of enchantment, blackness without darkness. One with the Witch, yet free, it elongated all her movements, drew them out and transformed them into pavanes and arabesques. Innowen looked for his own shadow. It made barely a stain on the far wall, huddled on a low shadow-stool in a corner, all crouched down and formless. It didn't move, it didn't dance. It just sat there, two useless shadow-legs thrust out at funny angles. Even his shadow was crippled. A moan rose from the bed. Innowen glanced apprehensively toward Drushen, but the old man made no other sound. The Witch stood motionless at the bedside. Innowen swallowed. _________________________________________________ 7

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_________________________________________________ "Is he...?" "Just sleeping," she answered, turning slowly to face him. She wore an expression of weariness as she drew herself erect. "He should awaken later in the day, and he'll be hungry. Feed him the broth that Vashni has prepared." Innowen gazed toward the hearth. A kettle hung on an iron hook near the fire, and a rich aroma filled the cabin. He hadn't seen the big warrior prepare it. He'd been too involved in watching the Witch and her shadow, too wrapped up in his own thoughts. Near Drushen's bed, a bowl of water sat on the floor. The Witch had used it to mix the poultice for his wound. Now she bent to pick it up, but as her fingers brushed the earthen rim, she froze. For a moment, she stood unmoving. Then her brow furrowed. She stooped closer and peered with keen interest at something in the water. As if struck a blow, she suddenly recoiled. All color drained from her face. Her mouth opened slackly, and her eyes widened. Carefully, she picked up the bowl, cradling it in both hands, and stared into it again. Innowen knew there was only water in the bowl. He didn't understand. What could she see in a bowl of water? The vessel slipped through her fingers, and the thin pottery shattered. Water splattered the floor and the hem of her fine gown. The Witch didn't care. She whirled toward Innowen. With an effort, she composed her features into a semblance of calm. Slowly, she drew a long breath and knelt to meet him eye to eye. "Do you know, my Innocent, why you cannot walk?" Innowen hung his head, unable to meet her gaze for long. He looked, instead, at her shadow as it stretched across the floor, up the far wall, and back over the ceiling like a tenuous preening creature. He could talk to her shadow, if not to the Witch. "Drushen said I was born this way." He swallowed hard again and trembled at her nearness. Yet the shadow on the wall encouraged him to speak, nodding its head as the flames danced in the hearth. "I never knew my parents. They left me on the road, exposed for the animals or the elements. Drushen found me and raised me, and we've been each others' only company ever since." Despite himself, a tiny smile creased his lips. "I can't do much to help around here, but I listen to his complaints and his stories, and we talk a lot." The Witch of Shanalane touched his knee. It startled him, and he jerked, bumping his head on the wall. He couldn't avoid her gaze any longer. Her eyes burned into him, searing him, illuminating all his secrets. Was it her power, or was it his own fear? He didn't know, but he couldn't look away. "Are you happy?" she asked, an odd question for one stranger to ask another. Innowen stammered and blinked back the tears that threatened to come again. "I can't walk," he answered slowly. He tore his gaze away at last and sought her shadow. It flickered in time to the crackling fire, moving over the old rough wood with an eerie grace. "I can't dance."

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_________________________________________________ A torrent of words burst from him, and his eyes flooded with tears. "I want to dance," he said bitterly. "Like your shadow there. Like the fire. Like the trees in the wind and the stars through the sky. Drushen dances sometimes, and the villagers in Shandisti dance when the harvest comes in. The animals, the birds, the grass and flowers—they all dance, they're all alive with motion." He pounded his fists against his unfeeling limbs. "But not me! Not Innowen!" The outburst drained him. He sagged back against the wall and slipped sideways off his stool to the floor. He beat his legs once more, but weakly, ashamed of his tears and his infirmity, painfully aware of the beautiful woman before him and of his own unworthiness. The door opened. Vashni peered around its edge. "We should leave now, Lady." He spared a glance toward Drushen's bed. "We've stayed too long already. The soldiers...." The Witch waved her hand, and Vashni fell silent. Leaning close, she took Innowen's face between her fingers and turned him toward her, forcing him to meet her eyes once more. He couldn't bear them, especially after his unmanly display. Yet she gripped his chin and compelled him to look. "My poor Innocent," she whispered. "I saw your pain. I saw it in the water where the past and future sometimes reveal themselves to me. I see it now in your aura, which glimmers with misery." She released him, and her hand settled on his chest, just over his heart. "I saw your fate in that bowl of water, my Innocent." Her face came next to his, and the warmth of her hand spread all through him. "You'll walk, yes, and you'll dance. You'll dance the world away." An arcane glittering like the flashes of tiny lightning bolts filled the dark wells of her eyes. Innowen's tears surged forth once more, humiliating him, the droplets completely beyond his control. He became a child again, a weeping baby in need of succor, muddy and filthsplattered. He slid further down, his back against the wall, until he almost lay on the floor. The Witch watched him; that only made him cry more. "I—I love you," he confessed through his sobs. With a boldness born of shame, he reached up to touch her face, longing to brush his fingers over the milky paleness of her cheek. She was just beyond his reach, though, and he trembled as he drew his arm back. His tears continued, blurring his vision. "I don't understand, I don't know how, but I love you." He turned his face to the floor and covered it with one hand. "Help me," he muttered. "I'll help you," the Witch answered, pulling his hand from his face. "I'll help you to walk, and you'll dance as no man has ever danced." She rose and went to the door. Vashni was no longer there. She called his name, and he appeared instantly. "Carry our Innocent out into the rain," Innowen heard her whisper. "Strip away his rags and let the downpour cleanse him. Make him fit to look upon our god." Vashni's eyes snapped wide, then he furrowed his brow. "Lady, Minarik's troops know our direction." Again, the Witch stopped him with a curt gesture. "This is too important," she snapped. "The storm will slow them, and if anyone finds us before I finish, you'll have to deal with them. Now do as I tell you. Then wait by the horses and keep a sharp watch. Go!" Vashni shook his head, frowning, but he picked up Innowen with his usual disdain. "Stop _________________________________________________ 9

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_________________________________________________ that blubbering," he grumbled, giving him a shake as he carried him through the door. The shock of the rain and wind did what Vashni's threat could not. Innowen had become used to the cottage's warmth. The cold stung him. He hugged himself and barely protested when Vashni dropped him on the ground, seized the back of his tunic and ripped it free in one swift motion. He opened his mouth to cry out, but no sound came. The huge warrior loomed over him, and Innowen realized the giant was as soaked and miserable as he was. Raindrops pearled down his face, streamed from his lashes and chin, causing him to blink and wipe his face endlessly. "You want to shed that breech cloth, or do you need more help?" Vashni snapped. Tremulously, Innowen unwound the breech cloth from his loins. He folded it selfconsciously, watching as the dark warrior went to the Witch's horse, reached into anther bag that was somehow bound to her riding pad, and lifted out a bundle of black velvet. Vashni's face seemed frozen in a perpetual grimace as he bore the burden back toward Innowen, slowly unwrapping it. Innowen caught his breath. The velvet came free, exposing a strange wooden idol. Thick copper nails had been driven into it, perhaps a hundred, at all different angles. Innowen could discern no detailed features for the spikes that pierced its face and head. The gods of Ispor were many, but Innowen, who knew little of gods, had never seen its like. Its countenance sent a shiver up his spine. Vashni set the idol on the ground and shot a glance toward the cottage. The door stood open, but all he could see was the Witch's shadow bent over that of the small table. It seemed to be writing something. He looked again at the weird god-figure and the copper spikes that impaled it, and dragged himself back a pace. The stern eyes of Vashni stopped him, and he sat up, trembling. The rain chilled his bare flesh; he hugged himself as much against his fear as for warmth. The Witch appeared in the doorway, the glow from the fireplace lending her a soft aura as she hesitated on the threshold. Silhouetted in such light, it proved impossible to see her face, but Innowen felt her gaze fix on him. She slammed her hand angrily on the door jamb. "Vashni," she shouted. "You fool! Not in the mud!" She disappeared inside again, only to return with the stool on which Innowen had sat. "Use this." Vashni retrieved the idol from the mud with a muttered apology as the Witch placed the stool near Innowen's feet. Snatching up the scrap of Innowen's tunic, he wiped the idol clean of any filth before he positioned it carefully on the stool. That done, he went back to the bag on his mistress' horse to extract from it a mallet and a new copper nail. Under the Witch's watchful eye, he set these down on the stool with the same care and backed away. The Witch opened her arms wide as If to embrace the storm. No longer did she hold the rain at bay with her magic. It drenched her, and her hair hung in thick ropes, and water rilled down her face and breasts and into her gown. She had not even donned her cloak. Her sodden garments clung to every rich curve of her body.

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_________________________________________________ As she approached the idol, her lips moved in a soundless prayer or incantation. Giving no thought to her fine gown, she knelt in the mud. One hand reached out to grasp the mallet, and her voice rose a bit until Innowen could hear her words. They made no sense to him. She lifted her other hand in the air, and he saw that she clutched something. A sudden flash of lightning revealed the piece of white cloth she gripped, perhaps a strip torn from Drushen's bedding. He remembered her shadow writing over his table. What had she scrawled on that scrap? A powerful bolt ripped a jagged blue tear in the sky. Thunder boomed and echoed. A terrible shriek followed, chilling Innowen to the marrow of his bones, and he gave a little cry, too, out of startled fright. The Witch had made that sound. She threw back her head and howled again. The sky answered with more lightning and more thunder. Suddenly, setting the mallet down and turning away from the idol, she glared at Innowen. Her eyes were two small heavens filled with their own wild tempests. They reflected the lightning flash as she came toward him. Innowen stared, fascinated and terrified, and he began to shake with an uncontrollable trembling. "You will walk," she said fiercely. "And you'll dance." The wind set her soaked garments to snapping, and the wet, tangled ropes of her hair blew back from her head and writhed like snakes in the gale. "How you'll dance!" she cried. Terrified, Innowen looked from her to the idol, to the lightning crackling overhead, and back to the Witch. For an instant she was a monster, a horrible creature crouched over him, ready to devour. She was evil—a witch. All the villagers, all the people in the countryside, knew and feared her. She summoned storms. Lightning exploded again, shattering the night. For a brief moment, a thousand shadows of the Witch stretched across the world, shadows that danced ephemerally before the returning waves of darkness washed them away. Even so, he loved her. He did, with all his young heart. She had saved his guardian, and now she was saying that he would walk. She could make him walk! Witch or not, evil or not, he had to love her! He swallowed his fear and met her potent gaze. "I want to!" he shouted over the thunder. "Make me walk! Do you have that much power?" Her eyes burned. She leaned forward on all fours, her hands sinking into the mud on either side of him. "My god does," she answered darkly. She pointed back to the idol with a long, ivory finger that dripped with muck and slime. "He has all power." The heavens fractured. Fiery lightning raced in all directions, turning the night into a cobalt lacework. Thunder rolled until the earth itself shook, and the trees bowed to the ground under a fearsome wind. The Witch brought her face close to his, and in the flashes of lightning, Innowen saw nothing human. He screamed inwardly, but he refused to admit his fear. He loved her! Still, he _________________________________________________ 11

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_________________________________________________ recoiled from her until he lay flat on his back in the mud. "He demands nothing of you," she said. Her warm breath caressed his lips, and the strange wild smell of her filled his senses as she stretched practically on top of him. "Only of me does he ask anything. The price is mine to pay." Her lips brushed ever so subtly against his. "At least for this moment." Innowen could retreat no further. His breath came in short gasps. His senses roiled in confusion. For all his fear—and he could no longer deny he feared her—he desired her deeply! Her body pressed down upon him, hot and wonderful and frightening. He bit his lip and clenched his fingers in the soft mud. "You will walk," she repeated, the words hissing between her perfect teeth, "and you will dance, and in time you, too, will pay a price." She pulled one hand from the mud and smeared it over his chest like a fine ointment. Her cold fingers drew small, teasing circles around his nipples and moved upward toward his throat. "But what is the value of a whole body, my Innocent?" she asked. "What would it be worth to be a complete man?" She hesitated as if expecting a response, but before he could speak she set a finger to his lips. "Shhhhh, no need, when we both know the answer." Whatever she was, whatever the villagers thought her, she knew his dearest dream. "Make me walk!" he uttered breathlessly, doubting her even as he wished fervently to believe. "I want to dance!" "I will," she promised. She held up the strip of cloth in her hand. It was wet and muddy, but as she unrolled it, he could see strange writing. "This is my prayer," she said. "You will be healed and made whole." Her hand clamped on his right leg. Innowen could not feel her strength, but when she let go, his flesh showed livid white marks. "Have faith in my god, Innocent! Believe in Him!" "I will!" Innowen shouted fervently. She scrambled on her knees to her idol and picked up the mallet. Crumpling her prayer in one hand, she pressed it to the wooden body of her god. Next, she picked up the sharp copper spike, set it in place against the cloth, and drew back to drive it home. The mallet struck, and the sky erupted. Thunder drowned out the sound of the impact as the nail ripped through the cloth and deep into the idol. Again, the Witch struck, and again the heavens cried with thunder. A third time she struck, and Innowen covered his ears. Vashni appeared beside her suddenly with a small bit of burning wood from the fireplace. He cupped one hand around the flame to protect it from the storm as he knelt and passed it to his mistress. She looked over her shoulder at Innowen, then touched the brand to the edge of the cloth. Though it was soaked, it began to burn. The smoke rose even through the thick rain. Then it flared with blinding intensity, and all the nails in the idol's body began to gleam in the red heat. The cloth quickly seared away. Not even an ash remained to fall on the stool. Still, the nails shone with heat-glow, and the air smelled of burning. The Witch cast her small brand aside, and the flame died before it hit the ground. She _________________________________________________ 12

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_________________________________________________ rose, drawing her dagger from her belt. Standing over her idol, the image of her holy god, she set the razor edge to her wrist. The blade rippled with wild color as lightning lit the darkness. The thunder that followed covered any sound she made as she drew it through the flesh. Blood splashed on the idol's head and streamed down among the nails, mingling with the ceaseless rain, staining the wood. Innowen cried out for his Lady, not knowing how deeply she had cut. The free flow of her life-fluid made him cry out again. She said nothing, though, just stared at the heavens and held her arm rigid while the blood pumped. Suddenly, Innowen felt the power of her god upon him. The idol's eyeless face regarded him with a cold passion. He stared back, looking for a gaze he could meet, then clapped a hand to his mouth in disbelieving horror. Its chest began to heave as if it drew breath; wooden limbs stirred ever so slightly and seemed to pulse with tension. He was only imagining it, he tried to tell himself. The lightning and the thunder, the fire, and the Witch's blood-letting all contrived to play this trick on his mind. But .no, he knew the truth. The thing exuded a fearsome, unimaginable life, and he was the object of its unnatural attention. He sat up slowly, supporting himself on his hands, unable to look away from the idol. With a screeching wail, a new wind ripped through the forest. From deep in the woods came the crashing of huge old trunks as their branches snapped and shattered and they struck the earth. Over it all, Innowen heard a groaning and a wrenching that made him look up. A corner of the cottage roof reared against the night, bucked and writhed like a tortured animal, then blew away with the gale. A section of the west wall sprang outward, and another piece of the roof collapsed. Innowen threw himself sideways on his elbows, twisting his body as he screamed. "Drushen!" The Witch stood over him. Her hair lashed wildly behind her, and her ruined gown whipped and beat in the wind. Her voice stung. "Rise, Innocent!" she shouted, shaking her fists. "Save your Drushen. Get up and run to him!" Innowen dragged himself through the mud, tears streaming, mingling with the rain that rilled down his face. "I can't!" he cried despondently. "Drushen!" "Drushen!" she mocked him. Then she kicked him repeatedly until he rolled away from her and found himself again at the wooden feet of her cruel god. She positioned herself between him and the cottage, and Vashni took a position at her back. "Get up, Innocent!" she demanded. "My god has placed his hand upon you. Save your guardian, but I won't let you crawl to him. Get up! Walk!" The wind swelled to greater fury. Even the Witch leaned into it to stand at all. Innowen stared at his home as yet another portion of the wall caved outward and another piece of roof tumbled down. He opened his mouth, but no sound came, so great was his horror. He stared at the Witch. He loved her! How could she do this, save his Drushen only to let him die? She had been beautiful before when she worked her bedside mercies. But now, muddied and soaking and angry, she seemed hellish, and he knew that the villagers were right _________________________________________________ 13

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_________________________________________________ in their fears, and that he was a fool to love her. "Get up!" It was the very voice of the storm coming from her. She shook her fist at him, and lightning crackled across the sky. He looked at the idol with its many copper spikes, sure that it breathed now. It pulsed with horrid vitality, swelled and contracted. The nails stirred like quills. The thing watched him and bent its will upon him with a dreadful force. "I can't! I can't!" he answered both the Witch and her god. "Help me!" He rose as high as he could on his hands, but she refused to let him crawl. Her sandaled foot pushed him back. Yet Drushen was still inside, and their home was crashing down. He had to save Drushen! He screamed in fear and anger, and as he did, he pulled one knee under himself, the first movement his legs had ever known. "Help yourself, Innocent!" the Witch cried with fierce urging. "Help yourself, and help your Drushen. But hurry! How long will the rest of the roof hold? How much time? Get up! Run!" Ever so shakily, Innowen rose, barely aware of his miracle. Drushen filled his thoughts. He took his first lurching step, then his second. The Witch stood before him, and he pushed her aside, all his attention on the cottage door and the firelight beyond it. Vashni moved out of his way. "That's it!" the Witch shouted gleefully. "Walk! Run! Dance! All you've wanted is yours now. Save Drushen. That's your task tonight!" She laughed, and the sound of it rolled even over the thunder. "But there's another task to come. I've seen your fate!" She laughed again. "Hurry, Innocent! Hurry to your task!" He reached the door. One hand grabbed the edge of it, and he jerked away in pain, a gasp on his lips. A huge splinter protruded from his right palm. He wrenched it out, grimacing at the tiny well of blood as he cast the splinter down. The foot of Drushen's bed was all he could see from the door, so he focused on that. Every step was a torturous effort. He balanced precariously on one leg, then the other. He had never learned to walk. How he managed it now, he didn't know. Maybe it was the god. But then, the god could have made it easier! Innowen had to think through every movement, and there was little time. The wind raged around him, pushing him back, as it blew through the shattered sections. He glanced upward. The remains of the roof hung dangerously over his head. Innowen fell suddenly, tripping in the debris that had been his home. Agony shot up his left arm. He raised it before his eyes, terrified at the sight of more of his blood. The roof made a menacing noise. A thick beam dipped toward Drushen. Innowen forgot his wound and dragged himself quickly across the ruined floor, using his elbows as he always had. The Witch wasn't there to stop him. But when he reached the bedside, he clutched the rough wooden frame with all his strength and hauled himself once more to his feet.

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_________________________________________________ He couldn't deny that the Witch had kept her promise—or that her god had kept it for her. He could stand. He could walk. But there was no time to ponder why or how. He pulled his unconscious guardian up and slipped his arms around the old man's chest. He took his first step backward. And fell again. He kept his grip on Drushen, though, and they tumbled from the bed to the floor. Once more, Innowen struggled to his feet, bent over uncertainly, and seized his guardian by the wrists. The room swam in circles as he straightened and began to drag Drushen through the rubble. Twice more he fell, the simple skill of moving backward eluding him. Each time, though, he rose faster and more surely. Through the door and into the storm he hauled the old man, falling yet again in the slippery mud. He screamed in frustration. With a grinding noise, the remains of the roof collapsed. The walls followed, crashing down in a thick cloud of dust that the rain swiftly smothered. The only home he had ever known lay in ruins. A numbness filled him. He stared at the broken pile of timbers that had been a cottage, and at Drushen, who slept the undisturbed sleep of a child. He looked for the Witch, but she was gone. So was her servant, Vashni, as was the idol. The little stool stood crookedly, alone in the cold rain, one of its three legs sunk deeper in the mud than the others. He looked slowly down at his own legs, so straight \and perfect, so strong, and his heart leaped. He could walk! He was whole! Suddenly, the cottage seemed a small price to pay for such a gift. The Witch had said there would be a price. He drew a deep breath, unable to resist the grin that turned up the corners of his mouth. What would you give? she had asked him. What would you give? he asked himself. He took a few hesitant steps, then flung up his arms and rejoiced. The cottage was, indeed, a small price. Drushen could build a better home, and they could both have beds. This time, Innowen could help! The storm grew weaker, and the rain almost stopped. But the wind rose again, strong as ever, and the night wailed with its power. Innowen, still new to the subtleties of balance, turned into it and was blown over into the muck. He rose on his elbows at his guardian's side. The wind blew through the forest, and the sound of its rush through the leaves, through the grass, took form in his ears and spoke to him in the Witch's voice. He shot a wild look around, searching for her, but she was not there. Only her words remained on the wind. Dance, my Innocent, the wind said to him. To walk, you must dance. Every night you must dance, or never walk again. Dance, dance as no one has ever danced. Dance the world away. Dance, dance, dance.... The wind laughed and laughed, then fell suddenly and dissipated. The leaves rustled weakly as it faded away. For a moment, silence ruled. The rain ended. The barest hint of _________________________________________________ 15

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_________________________________________________ lightning flickered far away in the heavens. In the distance, the thunder gave a last rattle and died. Innowen rolled over, his face close to Drushen's. The old man looked serene, his eyes gently closed. No trouble or worry creased his brow. He slept as if still in his bed, oblivious to the mud beneath him and to the destruction of his home. Innowen planted a small kiss on his guardian's cheek and got to his feet. He had to think about shelter. Drushen couldn't be left in the chill all night. He looked around, wondering what to do. Then, the words of the wind echoed in his head. Dance, it said. He didn't know how. Experimentally, he lifted one foot, pointed the toe, and tapped it on the ground. There should be music, he thought. But there was none. The leaves rasped suddenly as a fresh wind stirred with new gentleness through the branches. That was music of a sort, Innowen reasoned. He drew back his foot, threw out his arms, and began a tentative turn, following it with another. I can dance, he whispered softly to himself. I can dance! The trees swayed with him, keeping time like great metronomes, and the wind rose again, but subtly, and it sounded ever so much like laughter.

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CHAPTER 2 INNOWEN SAT WITH his back against the trunk of an old tree. A thick, broken limb hung down to the earth, providing the only shelter he could find from the misty, intermittent drizzle and the wind that had turned so chilly. Droplets of water from the leaves above fell with annoying regularity in his eyes and on his face. He did his best to ignore them and to forget the cold muddy ground beneath him. He gazed down at Drushen and brushed the damp, graying hair back from his guardian's face. The woodcutter stirred ever so slightly; the corner of one lip twitched, and a hand settled on Innowen's knee. Drushen slept in apparent peace, but the Witch had warned he would wake hungry. Innowen thought of the stew Vashni had prepared by the hearth. But the hearth was only a pile of stones now, scattered among the ruins of the cottage. A dark blot in the greater darkness of night marked where those ruins were. Innowen had dug among them, hoping to find some bit of fire in the fireplace to carry back to his shelter, just a small flame, a handful of coals even, to warm Drushen in his sleep. But the collapse had smothered the fire and his hope. He had only his body to keep his friend warm, and he wrapped his arms and legs around the older man and hugged him close. But slowly, a strange sensation crept into Innowen's legs. Dull needles pricked his flesh, a tingling that began at his ankles and spread upward. No matter how he rubbed and massaged, the sensation worsened until he could stand it no longer. He eased Drushen aside and leaped up, grabbing the tree for balance. He took a hesitant step and fell with a sharp cry, fearing the numbness that filled his legs. Cautiously, he rose again, grabbing hold of the broken limb to support himself. If the Witch's magic had worn off, he would be a cripple once more. The thought terrified him. He took a couple tentative steps, never letting go of the branch, begging whatever god had healed him not to turn away from him now. He curled his free hand into a fist and beat it desperately against his thighs, trying to stir up feeling. Little by little, the tingling stopped and Innowen's fear subsided. He let go of the limb and walked around the tree until he was sure of his step again. Had the Witch's god heard his prayer? He glanced down at his bare toes and wiggled them in the muddy grass, a marvelous feeling. A slow smile blossomed on his lips; he delighted in the newness of such textures under the soles of his feet. The sheepish grin spread over his face, and he chided himself for his own ignorance. Now

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_________________________________________________ that his panic had subsided, he recalled how Drushen had occasionally rested from his work, settled back on his haunches to eat a lunch or to talk a bit, and how he would sometimes rise suddenly and complain that his legs had gone to sleep. The expression had never meant anything to Innowen before. The old man would beat and rub his legs until sensation returned, and he would smirk and mumble about getting old. That was all that had happened to Innowen. The Witch's magic had not deserted him. He had only sat too long in an uncomfortable position, and his legs had gone to sleep. There was a sweet pleasure in the discovery that his once-dead limbs could do that. He grabbed the branch again for balance, then lifted his right leg, pointed the toe, flexed the knee and pushed straight out. He smiled. Then he let go a gleeful laugh that rolled through the forest. It felt so good to laugh and to move his legs. He sat down, marveling at how his legs folded so naturally beneath him, and cradled Drushen's head in his lap. If only his guardian would wake so Innowen could show him his surprise! A sigh escaped his lips as he leaned back and stared at the sky through the leaves of the sheltering branch. Gray clouds raced bleakly across the heavens. The palest crescent moon dared to peep through. A few stars winked briefly and disappeared. Beautiful and frightening, he thought, like the Witch. He couldn't stop thinking of her. Her voice whispered to him on the breeze. The moon was her smile, and the stars were her eyes watching him from behind the clouds. The air smelled of her perfume. She had treated Drushen with kindness and mercy, and she had healed Innowen's legs. Yet she had also destroyed their home and endangered Drushen's life after she had saved it. He remembered her in the storm and wind, seeming like nothing human, as she'd taunted and laughed at him. She'd seemed so gentle before, when she found him on the road. Innowen didn't understand. He closed his eyes and rubbed them with his fists, wishing that morning would come. Dawn couldn't be far off. He longed suddenly for the warmth of the sun and an end to the cold and rain. A sound came abruptly from the path that led to the road. Innowen hesitated uncertainly, then untangled himself from his sleeping guardian and crawled from under his shelter. Five mounted soldiers rode out of the woods. He leaped to his feet. "Help!" he called, waving his arms. "Please, help us!" The riders halted, and five spears leveled on him as heads jerked his way. Innowen stepped forward into plain sight so they could see he was weaponless. "Please help me!" he begged, lifting his empty hands toward them. "My guardian is ill, and the storm has destroyed our home." The five riders approached him warily. Innowen could tell very little about them, since they wore cloaks and helms. They were big men, though, and obviously on edge. What were they doing on the road on such a night? And why had they turned off to take the trail that led to his cottage? He looked at the points of their spears and swallowed.

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_________________________________________________ One soldier nudged his horse ahead of the others and stopped again before Innowen. The man stared downward without speaking. Innowen could barely see the gleam of eyes under the nose guard and the copper rim of the ornately fashioned helm. A crest of horsehair crowned its top and cascaded down the rider's back. Innowen stood before him, suffering the weight of that stare until the rider spoke at last. "Where are your clothes, boy?" The voice was deep, yet soft and tinged with weariness. Innowen felt the heat of embarrassment rise in his cheeks. Vashni had ruined his only tunic and taken his loin cloth. "I was asleep," he lied shyly, "and naked when the cracking of the roof beams wakened us. Drushen took a snake-bite today, not a fatal one, but he was still sick, and I had to drag him out of the cottage. There wasn't time to dress." "Drushen?" The stranger's speech was like a rich, warm liquid. The sound of it fascinated Innowen, and he wondered at the face behind the helm. Never in his life had he met so many strangers in one day! He pointed back to the broken branch that he'd claimed for shelter. "My guardian," Innowen explained. "He's under there. We took care of his bite in time, and he's breathing, but I can't wake him up." The rider crooked a finger. Two of his comrades slid down from their horses in response and crawled under the makeshift shelter. Innowen watched them disappear, then looked up again. The man seated above him unlaced his cloak and cast it down to him. He caught it in both hands. "Cover yourself before you catch a chill," his benefactor instructed. He glanced toward the remains of the cottage and drew his shoulders back in what might have been a soundless sigh. "We'll take you with us to Whisperstone tonight and try to get you settled in Shandisti tomorrow." Innowen took a step back. "Lord Minarik's keep?" The rider grinned. "Are you afraid?" He stammered. "I—I don't know. I've never seen Minarik." The man removed his helm and leaned forward on his horse's withers. "Whom did you think you were addressing in this accursed drizzle?" Innowen paled, taking sudden note of the man's exquisite garments—the lacquered breastplate and the embroidered sleeves of a linen tunic, the short kilt similarly embroidered, and the sculpted metal greaves that covered his lower legs. Innowen should have noticed as soon as Minarik had removed the cloak, but he'd been too startled to receive it as a gift. He studied the lord as best he could in the darkness. Minarik was younger than Drushen. There was the barest hint of gray in his hair, but none in the close-trimmed beard and mustache. His face was handsome, and his entire bearing conveyed strength and power. A stray moonbeam rippled along the bronze point of Minarik's javelin as he balanced it across his bare thighs and rested his helm carefully on the shaft. "Now, I've got some questions, boy, and be mindful of my kindness as you answer."

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_________________________________________________ Innowen licked his lips and nodded hesitantly, uncomfortably aware that he'd already lied to this man once. He was also aware of the veiled threat in Minarik's words. Of course, there had to be a reason why the Lord of Whisperstone was abroad on such a foul night. There was a scuffling behind him, and he turned. The two soldiers emerged from under the overhanging branch bearing Drushen by the heels and shoulders. The old man slept on, oblivious to everything. Even when they passed him up to one of the other riders, who draped him unceremoniously across the shoulders of his horse, he didn't stir. Lord Minarik drew Innowen's attention back. "We've been following two fugitives," he said. "A woman and her champion. But this wretched storm has made a ruin of the roads and their tracks. As near as we can tell, though, they came down this path." His gaze bore into Innowen as he leaned even lower. "Did you see them?" Innowen hugged the cloak around his shoulders and stared at Drushen, who hung limply across the horse between a soldier's thighs. He thought then of the warmth of Whisperstone's hearths and the safety of its walls, perhaps some food, and the bed his guardian certainly needed. And he thought of the Witch, who had healed his crippled legs. "What have they done?" he dared to ask, meeting Minarik's gaze as steadily as he could. "King Koryan was murdered two nights ago," Minarik answered sternly. "This woman and man are charged with the crime, and since they dwell within my borders I'm responsible for their apprehension." He straightened a bit, but his countenance was no less severe. "So tell me if they passed this way." Innowen tried to hide his trembling. He owed a debt to Minarik for the cloak and for the care and shelter he had promised. Yet he owed a debt also to Vashni and the Witch of Shanalane. She had saved Drushen from the serpent's venom, and she had made his legs whole again. Surely, that was the greater service, even if Minarik was the lord of this land. He stalled while his mind raced. "Then Kyrin sits on the throne of Ispor?" Minarik snorted. "Koryan's first-born sits safe and dry at my table in Whisperstone eating my larder bare while I hunt for his father's killers. But never fear, he assures us of the depth of his grief. Now answer my question." Innowen pulled the cloak tighter about himself to fight off a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. "How did great Koryan die?" he persisted. "You say it was two days ago?" Minarik shifted impatiently. "You're too inquisitive, boy." he grumbled. "Nobody knows how he died, but they say there was such a look of terror on his face—as if he'd seen into the Underworld itself—that only the Witch of Shanalane could've done the deed." Innowen gave no thought to his foolishness as he observed with an open scoff, "That's slight evidence, Lord." A hand seized him by the back of the neck and lifted him to the tips of his toes. He gave a half-strangled cry of pain before Minarik waved his hand, and he was released. He shot a fearful glance over his shoulder and stared into the face of one of the guards who had carried Drushen out from under the shelter. _________________________________________________ 20

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_________________________________________________ "You've seen her, haven't you, boy?" Minarik's gaze brooked no argument. Abruptly, Innowen felt a strange weakness in his knees and thought he would fall down. But the guard behind him settled a hand on his shoulder, steadying him, and Minarik spoke again. There was no anger in his voice, yet he was firm. "It's said that all who see her must love her." The barest hint of a sympathetic smile flickered on his lips. "And you have that look about you." The smile quickly vanished. "Nevertheless, you must tell me the truth." Innowen listened to the wind, hoping it would speak to him again, tell him what to do. But the air was silent, the night suddenly still, as if the world held its breath to see what he would do. At last, he nodded. "She saved Drushen," he admitted as the slow fire of shame warmed his face. Even as he betrayed the Witch, he tried to defend her. He clenched his fists in the fabric of the cloak and stepped up beside Minarik's knee. "Why would she murder King Koryan and then take time to spare an old woodcutter?" he said furiously. "Why would she do that?" Minarik brushed a finger over his lower lip and gazed at him intently. "You say she saved your guardian?" Innowen bowed his head and drew a deep breath. If he could do nothing more, perhaps he could gain time for the Witch by talking. "He was stung by a serpent, but she drew out the poison. She bandaged him, too, and her man made a stew in the fireplace. What sense does that make if she murdered Koryan?" The Lord of Whisperstone scratched his chin. Then he crooked a finger again. A soldier rode up on his right side and wordlessly accepted Minarik's javelin and helm. Unburdened, Minarik threw a leg over the neck of his horse and slid to the ground. Folding his arms across his armored chest, he paced toward the ruins of the cottage. Innowen followed. When Minarik spoke, it was half to himself. "Kyrin said she fled when he sent his men to question her." "Question her?" Innowen sneered, "or apprehend her?" At once, he clapped a hand over his mouth. He had dared too much, to use such a tone of voice with such a great man. He flung himself at Minarik's feet. "Please, I beg you! Do her no harm!" He set his forehead on the toe of Minarik's muddy sandal and grasped his ankle in both hands. "You've shown me kindness, Lord," he cried, "with this gift of your cloak and your offer of shelter. But she saved my guardian's life. The Witch of Shanalane can't be guilty of Kyrin's charge!" Minarik bent down, gripped Innowen's arm gently and pulled him up. "You have seen her, then, as I thought," he said. "And perhaps you do love her even at your tender age." He let go of Innowen, turned, and walked back to his horse. "Well, it no longer matters. We'll not catch them tonight." He glanced up at the sky and wiped the drizzle from his forehead with the back of his arm. "Dawn can't be far off. My men are tired, and the rain has washed away any tracks." He took his reins, climbed astride his huge gray, and settled himself upon the animal's bare back. The soldier at his right side held out the javelin and helmet. Minarik took them and set the helmet on his head. "We'll return to Whisperstone and face Kyrin's wrath," he announced, beckoning to Innowen. "Come, you'll ride with me. What's your name?"

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_________________________________________________ "Innocent," he answered without thinking, taking the lord's hand, allowing himself to be hauled upward. Minarik was strong indeed. He balanced Innowen between his thighs and wrapped an arm around his middle. Working the reins with one hand, he steered his horse around to face his soldiers. "Forget what you've heard here," he told them. "We found these two in the storm, that's all. The Witch and her man are lost to us. If anyone questions you, shrug and blame it on her magic." He glanced at the racing clouds overhead and again wiped the damp mist from his brow. "I'm half-convinced she's responsible for this murk, anyway. Now, who's for food and a crackling fire?" His four men grumbled agreement, and with Minarik taking the lead, they started back up the narrow path to the main road. Low branches swatted them smartly, and wet leaves licked their faces. Innowen shuddered, remembering how strangely different it had seemed when he rode this way with Vashni. But then he'd been slung over the horse like a piece of baggage. Maybe that was really why the limbs hadn't struck him, why the forest had seemed to shy away as they passed. He sighed and shivered and tried to adjust himself more comfortably on the horse's wet hide. Minarik's arm tightened about him, and he leaned back against his benefactor. There was warmth in the older man, and Innowen had been cold too long.

*~*~*

He had never been so far from home or so far down the forest road. To every tree and boulder there was a wonderful sense of newness that not even the darkness could hide. When the road began to widen, Innowen leaned forward eagerly. Despite the hour, he was not tired. He looked about with excitement. The clouds parted briefly. A slender moon and a few broken stars lit up the world ahead. Innowen caught his breath. Slowly, he raised a finger to his mouth and chewed the tip as he stared at the dark, magnificent shape ahead. While he had never seen Minarik's keep before, he had heard tales among the villagers in Shandisti. None of those tales had prepared him for such a sight. Whisperstone reared defiantly against the heavens, hugging the moon's light to keep the night at bay. Dim candles and lamps bent to the same task, oozing dull amber radiance through the open shutters of the highest windows. Turrets and towers loomed like jagged teeth. Shadows shifted in the crenilations and among the battlements of its fantastic walls where small watchfires burned. Behind it, as if to provide an appropriate backdrop, rose the blacker bulk of a huge, rounded hill: Impossibly, Whisperstone seemed to grow clearer to Innowen's vision as he gaped. He could make out the Individual blocks of stone in the great defensive wall, the crumbling mortar, cracks that had become home to moss and lichen. He knew he couldn't possibly see so clearly in the darkness, yet the illusion persisted. _________________________________________________ 22

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_________________________________________________ Then clouds obscured the moon once more, and Whisperstone seemed to fade. Only the pitiful lights m the windows and the watchfires remained like pale, inscrutable eyes that measured their approach. Innowen trembled. "Cold?" Minarik asked, his voice breaking the silence as gently as if it were an egg. "We'll be there goon. Dry clothes and hot food will chase away the chills." Innowen didn't answer. Not all the chills, he thought, hugging himself. Whisperstone frightened and fascinated him. He stared ahead, both hoping for and dreading another glimpse of their destination. The clouds granted his wish. The moon lit up the keep once more with an icy white light, but only briefly before dosing in again. The night teased him like that. Several more times, the moon shone through only to be swallowed by the clouds. Each time, Whisperstone brightened and faded, as if it were not quite part of this world, but on a misty boundary between earth and unreality. The road grew wider still. They passed a house set back among the trees, then another with a small forge m a shed beside it; the coals still glowed with dull red heat and exuded thin wisps of smoke. A little further along, several houses stood clustered together. There was a barn and a corral full of horses. The animals stood quietly and unmoving, disinterested as the soldiers rode by. Innowen required no moonlight now to see Whisperstone. The road led straight ahead through its mighty, massive gates. On either side of it, small shops and cottages stood darkly silent. Innowen peered at the doorways and shutters for any sleepy faces that might peek out. But the village was still. No one and nothing stirred. The immense gates stood open. A pair of guards kept watch at the entrance, clutching long, wooden-shafted spears with glistening copper leaf-shaped points. They looked thoroughly miserable in sodden cloaks, yet they pulled themselves to attention and saluted properly as their lord approached. Minarik's small company passed through the gates and rode across a muddy expanse. It was more than a mere courtyard. It might have been a huge training ground or a vast common area. A few outbuildings, barely visible, nestled in the shadow of the great wall. One of the gate sentries walked alongside Minarik's horse, lighting the way to the keep's entrance with a single oil lantern. Innowen caught his breath again when the dirty glow illumined a brief cascade of wide marble stairs that rose up between two huge, ancient, fluted columns. Just beyond the columns, a pair of ponderous doors stood shut. Hideous bronze visages peered back at him through the gleam, immense masks, he realized, hammered and embossed into the metal plating that strengthened and reinforced those doors. And there was more. Demons danced and wild spirits writhed obscenely in relief around the masks, as if the artist had sought to depict some hellish orgy. In the lamp's flickering, the figures seemed to move, and Innowen clapped a hand to his mouth. Minarik gave a low chuckle and squeezed the boy's shoulder. "Nothing to hurt you, son," he said. "Whisperstone was built in another age, long before my father's fathers came to own it. Men were superstitious in those days, and our home reflects many of the old beliefs. Those _________________________________________________ 23

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_________________________________________________ were made to frighten away intruders, but they're only the imaginings of a skillful artisan, nothing more." He squeezed Innowen's arm again. "You're much too frail and delicate for your age, boy." It was a soldier's appraisal, and Innowen squirmed. "You need some muscle and meat on you." Innowen drew his shoulders up around his ears and gathered the cloak tighter around his throat. Minarik scratched his bearded chin. "I'd heard that your woodcutter lived with a crippled lad. Drushen, you said his name was? How did that rumor get started?" Innowen only shrugged. How could he explain his newfound ability to walk? It was easier to let the Lord of Whisperstone wonder. Rumors were only rumors, and in time, Minarik would surely dismiss the story. "You've turned sullen," Minarik observed. He waited, as if expecting Innowen to answer. When Innowen volunteered nothing, he continued. "I've shut myself within these walls too long. I barely know the people who dwell in my corner of Ispor anymore." Innowen twisted on the horse's bare back to see Minarik's face. The regretful tone of Minarik's remark surprised him, and his mouth fell open. He thought of his lonely cottage in the woods and the years spent with only Drushen for company. Except for the rare times when he accompanied his guardian to Shandisti to sell wood, that had been his world. But he'd been an invalid and a cripple. How could a man like Minarik, vigorous and full of a man's strength, how could he hide inside his walls when the whole world sprawled at his feet? He saw something suddenly in the older man's eyes, just a brief flash, something deep and sad. A memory, perhaps, or an old hurt. Innowen bit his lip and turned away, knowing with a strange .certainty that some mystery surrounded Minarik, something that haunted his heart and soul. He wished he had not seen it, that he had not looked in those eyes. It disturbed Innowen, filled him with an odd disquiet. He jerked his head up suddenly and frowned. His imagination was running away with him. How could he know such a thing? Who was he to judge this man who had treated him so kindly? It was time to get a grip on his senses, on his reason. He clenched his eyes shut and opened them, then he gazed again at Whisperstone, his lips forming a taut line. The keep was huge; he felt dwarfed and cold in its shadow. But it was only a keep, he told himself, an ancestral home for a long line of noblemen. In the darkness, it seemed to breathe with a palpable life. In the light of day, though, he knew it would be just a pile of stones. Minarik eased himself back onto the rump of his horse and slid down to the ground. Then he held his arms out to help Innowen dismount. As soon as his feet touched the muddy earth, Innowen pitched backward, over-balanced. The horse started to bolt, but Minarik caught its reins and jerked hard with a low shout. The beast stilled at once, and he reached down and lifted Innowen from the mud. "You're a clumsy boy," he said with a grin, "but, I think, a likable one." Innowen's cheeks burned with embarrassment, and he looked despairingly at his fine cloak _________________________________________________ 24

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_________________________________________________ now splattered with filth. "Don't worry," the lord said, laying a hand on Innowen's shoulder. He passed the reins of his horse to the sentry who carried the lantern and guided his young guest up the steps toward the pair of doors. Two of his soldiers surrendered their reins to the same guard and followed, bearing Drushen's unconscious form between them. "Gently," Minarik cautioned them. The Lord of Whisperstone pushed open the doors and led the way inside. Innowen blinked as light spilled around him. The inner hall blazed with a brilliance provided by mirrorenhanced lamps. Behind each sconce a plate of burnished copper hung, intensifying and reflecting the lamps' fireglow. Innowen had heard of such a thing, but never seen it. Minarik beckoned. "Come in, Innocent." He frowned and hesitated. His feet were muddy and his cloak dripped. Whisperstone's floor was made of beautiful marble tiles. Minarik had left tracks, but then, it was his floor. The lord shook his head with undisguised mirth. He dragged the sole of his sandal on the floor, leaving a thick smear. "I have many slaves and hired servants," he said. "Now come along." Innowen swallowed, then stepped inside. The stone was cold beneath his bare feet. A small grin blossomed on his face. He'd never felt such a sensation against his feet before! Or any sensation until tonight. All the terror of Whisperstone fled before this unexpected reminder that his body was whole, that he had feeling where none had ever been, that he could walk. He wiggled his bare toes on the marble, unable to hide his delight. "You're a strange one," Minarik said wonderingly, and Innowen noticed the curious expression his host wore. He made a hasty excuse for his behavior as he went to Minarik's side. "I've never stood on such a fine floor." At least it was not a lie. He didn't want to lie to this man again. "We had a dirt floor in the cottage." They walked down a long hall and turned into another. A huge, powerful-looking servant clad in a robe of white homespun hurried to meet them and to gather their wet garments. Innowen cowered away, rather than surrender his cloak. He was naked underneath; he didn't want to stand bare and dirty in this place where great men lived. The servant tried to snatch it, anyway. Minarik saved him. "Taelyn, let him be," he ordered with a patient voice. "I gave him the cloak. Go, and prepare a room for him and his guardian. The old man is ill, so light a good fire, and get food and drink ready for them." Taelyn shot a baleful glare at Innowen but bowed and hurried to obey. The two soldiers followed after him, bearing Drushen between them by heels and shoulders, as if he were a sack of vegetables. Innowen started to protest, but then he caught a quick glimpse of his guardian's face; it was composed in utter peace. Innowen turned uncertainly toward Minarik. Was he supposed to go with Drushen or stay with his host? _________________________________________________ 25

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_________________________________________________ "Are you tired?" Minarik asked. He shook his head. "Come with me, then. This is your chance to meet Ispor's new king." Minarik wiped a frown away with the back of his hand. "It's not the honor it should be, but young as you are, you may find some thrill in it." He didn't miss Minarik's doubtful tone, and if the noble hid his frown behind a hand, he couldn't hide the creases that lined his brow when he spoke of Koryan's son. But Kyrin was king now, and respect was his due. It was not right to speak as Minarik had. In their brief time together, though, Innowen had come to trust Minarik. If the Lord of Whisperstone disliked his new monarch there must be some reason. He, too, would be wary then, and form no quick judgment. He wished that he had better clothes, any clothes, in which to meet a king, but he had no chance to remark on it. Minarik had already started down the hall. Innowen clutched the corners of his cloak and hurried after him, his bare feet making dull slapping sounds on the cool marble. They turned into yet another corridor. Everywhere Innowen looked, weapons adorned the walls. Spears and leaf-shaped swords hung on pegs or stood paired in niches and alcoves. Lamplight gleamed on the bronze blades of crossed axes and on small, beautifully carved bows and flint-tipped arrows. There were weapons unknown to him, relics, he guessed, of another time or from far-off lands. A row of ceremonial shields lined one passage, each different in shape and ornamentation. He recognized few of the mythic creatures, nor any of the demonic faces beaten or painted upon their surfaces, but he thought they leered at him and followed him with their copper-glinting eyes. "Are there ghosts at Whisperstone?" he murmured softly, afraid that his voice might echo in the corridors and disturb things better left alone. Minarik didn't stop or answer, but his throaty chuckle did nothing to calm Innowen's fears. Innowen swallowed, took a deep breath, and walked a little faster in his host's footsteps. The corridors twisted and turned until he thought he would get dizzy and embarrass himself by falling again. Yet he walked on and did his best to keep the swift pace without stumbling. The ornate workings and furnishings of the keep nearly overwhelmed him. In his young life he had never seen such opulence. Where there were no weapons adorning the walls, there were sculptures. Where there were no sculptures, there were friezes and frescoes. Without asking, Innowen knew they were the works of master artisans. Each was flawless, exquisite even to his crude and uneducated sensibilities. A gentle music, the sweet high notes of a reed pipe, floated down the hall. It grew louder as they walked, and clearer. He listened to its enchanting purity. Each note was perfect. The tones rose and faded without wavering. Unthinking, he began to sway. He drew one arm gracefully up and over his head. With a jolt of realization, he stopped himself. Because he walked a little behind Minarik, the lord had not seen, and he was thankful for that. Still, the music was lovely. He could barely _________________________________________________ 26

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_________________________________________________ keep from dancing; that was what he longed to do, had longed to do all his life, to dance. He remembered where he was and put his desires aside. There would be a time to dance. This was not that time, though. He was in a great house with a great man, and on his way to meet a king. He lifted his chin and thrust out his chest, attempting to bear himself with proper dignity. As he drank in the music, he swore he heard his name in the next three notes. Minarik stopped abruptly, and Innowen ran into him. Inwardly, he cursed himself and started to apologize. But the Lord of Whisperstone had not even noticed. Instead, he stood stiffly, with fists clenched at his sides, and glared at four sentries who blocked a pair of oaken doors. Innowen studied the four, quickly noting the short red-sleeved tunics under the leather breastplates on two of the men, which set them apart from Minarik's men, who wore chitons of green with embroidered short sleeves under their armor. The pair in scarlet smiled with smug contempt, while the other two looked down at the floor in shame. A low, angry sound rumbled in Minarik's throat. Ignoring their spears, he grabbed the reds by their collars and hurled them away from the entrance. Innowen cringed away and flattened himself against a wall. Minarik's two men stepped back with stricken looks on their faces, uncertain of what to do. Minarik scowled at them, and they bowed apologetically out of his way. Minarik kicked open the thin, wooden doors; they rebounded on the inner walls with a crash, and Minarik smashed them back again as he stormed through. Innowen quickly followed, ducking under the arm of a sentry who dared to make a grab for him. Apparently, the man lacked the courage to chase him. Or perhaps it was good sense that made him decide to remain at his post in the corridor. This new hall was yet another amazement in a night filled with wonders. It was larger than his entire cottage and far more splendid. And the music! It swirled around him, overwhelming his senses. He spotted its source, a young girl at the farthest end of the room. She sat on a pillow playing her pipe at the feet of a man who he knew could only be Ispor's new king. "You insult me, Kyrin!" Minarik's bellow rolled through the chamber. Startled by the force of Minarik's anger and awed that he would dare to address Kyrin so bluntly, Innowen forgot the girl and gave his attention back to his benefactor. "Do you fear my warriors, that you must add your own guards to my doors? Do you doubt my loyalty?" Kyrin sat on an ornate, cushioned chair, which was positioned on a low dais against the room's far wall. He half reclined in it, with one leg thrown casually oven an arm of the chair, and he peered at them over the rim of a flat-bowled kylix. "No insult at all," 'he answered, wiping a trace of wine from his lip with one finger. To Innowen's surprise, Kyrin's voice carried with equal power, though he did not shout. The girl at his feet fluttered a note on her pipe suddenly, as if to draw his attention to the hall's nearly perfect acoustics. He looked at her, and their eyes met briefly before she glanced shyly away, lifted her instrument, and resumed her soft play. _________________________________________________ 27

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_________________________________________________ "Unless it is to me," Kyrin continued, straightening himself as he put both feet on the floor. "1 ordered two of my men to stand duty so that yours could join the search for that cursed Witch." Innowen stiffened. Cautiously, he moved from behind Minarik and found a place near the lord's right hand. He took a harder look at this king. A scarlet cloak lay discarded in a heap on the floor near the chair. Several trays and vessels were also scattered about. Innowen studied the fine red robe that Kyrin wore, the mass of black braids that crowned his head, the richly oiled beard that hid the lower half of his face, the eyes that glittered darkly even over the length of the hall. Who are you, he thought with slowly growing bitterness, to speak of the Witch and to dare hunt her through rain and wind. Even if you were king of the world, you would pale beside her. "But they refused!" Kyrin rose from the chair, his hand clenching so tightly on the supporting base of the kylix that wine splashed over its rim. "As if your order took precedence over mine!" As suddenly as he had sprung up, he seemed to relax again, and he forced a smile. "Still, because it's your house, I spared their heads. This time." He took a sip from his cup and wiped his mouth again with the back of a hand. "Well, did you find her?" Minarik sighed and rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. "Except for the few who remain on watch, all my men are scouring the countryside. But I tell you, Kyrin, this damned storm has spoiled any sign of a trail. The gods alone know where she is by now." Anger flashed over Kyrin's face. With a visible effort, he mastered himself, bent down to the girl with the reed pipe, and placed a hand affectionately on her head as he whispered something in her ear. She put down her pipe and smiled up at him. He stroked her beautiful black hair and returned her smile. Slowly, she got to her feet, made a delicate curtsy to him and then to Minarik, hugged her instrument to her bosom and left the room. Innowen stared after her, painfully aware of the absence of her quiet piping. The room seemed cold and still without her music. Even the air went stale, and what had seemed splendid before became plain. "I ordered you to find the Witch!" Once the child was gone, Kyrin's rage returned. "I ordered you!" He rose to his feet and shook a fist at Minarik. "You dare face me emptyhanded?" Minarik sneered. "You'll find soon enough, boy, that it's one thing to order men, and quite another to order fate! Are you such a great king? Go tell the storm to stop, and tell the rain to leave her tracks untouched! Go on, I'll wait here!" Kyrin purpled. With a shout, he flung his winecup at the Lord of Whisperstone. Innowen also gave a cry. Without thinking, he leaped in front of Minarik. The vessel struck him in the chest; red wine splashed his face. A hand closed on his shoulder and pulled him out of the way, but Minarik spared no glance or thanks. He turned toward the doors instead, and called to one of his men. "Take my young guest to Taelyn," he instructed the green-sleeved guard. "He's prepared a room. Make sure the boy and his guardian are comfortable." _________________________________________________ 28

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_________________________________________________ "Don't turn your back on me, Uncle!" Kyrin bellowed. "It's a mistake to turn your back on me!" "So I've heard," Minarik answered darkly, turning from Innowen and resuming his argument with Kyrin. Uncle! Innowen watched over his shoulder as the guard led him out. Minarik and Kyrin faced each other. Like giants, they seemed to him, ready to bite and claw. The guard led him through the doors and out into the corridor. Shouting followed them and echoed through the keep. "Is he really the king's uncle?" Innowen asked his guard. The soldier only grimaced and said nothing. Whisperstone was a maze. One corridor turned into another. They went up, down, and under stairways. They met no other servants, and all but a handful of soldiers were looking for the Witch and Vashni. The oppressive silence unsettled him. He found himself thinking of the girl with the pipe again and of her music. Ahead, a door eased open. Innowen recognized the servant who had met them earlier. "Oh, you're here, are you?" Taelyn said. "Well, good." He waved a hand impatiently at the guard. "Go back to your business," he said. "This young man is in my care now. Go on, I say." The guard departed, silent as ever. The servant beckoned Innowen into the room. A rush of pleasant warmth swept over him. A fire crackled in the fireplace, and oil lamps burned in each of the four corners. A sweet scent wafted on the air; he couldn't tell its source, but he inhaled deeply. "Over there," Taelyn said, "is a basin where you may wash." He indicated a low pedestal near the fire where a bowl and pitcher rested. "And here," he continued, leading him to a small table, "are fruits and strip-meats to eat and fresh water to drink. Your guardian is in the next room." Innowen followed him through a narrow archway into another chamber. "Your bed is also here." He had never seen such finery on a bed before. The idea of stretching his body upon it, weary as he was, 'almost appalled him. It was too fine! Only a single candle lit this room, but it was enough to tell the quality of the rich spread and the lush pillows, and the thick carpets that surrounded it all. Drushen slept quietly on another bed on the shadowed side of the room. Innowen crept toward him, ran a hand over the beautiful quilt that covered his old friend, and sat down gently beside him. The dim candlelight glimmered on the flecks of gray in Drushen's beard and dark hair. The old man's lids were pale and blue-veined. His face, though, had been washed and the filth combed out of his hair. "Did you do this?" he asked over his shoulder: Taelyn let go a too-loud sigh. "I couldn't very well have him soiling Minarik's sheets, and there was no one else to do it this time of night." He sighed again. "Or morning, I should say. _________________________________________________ 29

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_________________________________________________ Now, if you have no other needs, I'll wish you pleasant dreams and seek my own rest." "Wait," Innowen called softly. "My thanks for all you've done. I will remember you to Lord Minarik." That brought a chuckle. "Remember me to him? As if he could damn well run this household without me! You have much to learn, young man." Innowen frowned at such rudeness, but reminded himself that he was a guest in someone else's house. "Then, I'll bid goodnight to Minarik's very important servant," he said with mockcourtesy. Taelyn looked at him for a moment, then grinned, as if he actually appreciated Innowen's daring. "Servant?" he said, lifting an eyebrow as he pulled away the neck of his chiton to expose a narrow collar of black leather. "You honor a poor slave." Then he was through the archway and gone. In the other room, the door closed gently. When Taelyn was gone, Innowen gazed down at Drushen and brushed his fingers over the old man's brow. The skin was cool and soft, a wondrous contrast to the woodcutter's rough features, the sharp bone lines, the traceries around his eyes and mouth. He sought Drushen's hand beneath the quilt and squeezed it. Get well, he wished. Don't leave me alone. He rose from the bedside, went into the other room, and washed his body. When he was clean again, he took a fruit from the table and drank water. The air was warm, too warm. The only window was in the bedchamber, and the shutters were closed. Would Drushen get cold if he opened it? Perhaps he could risk just a crack. He crept over the carpets. "Innowen?" He turned away from the shutters at the sound of his name. His guardian stared at him from the pillow, smiling weakly. "Drushen!" he exclaimed, hurrying to the bedside. He hugged the old man and leaned his head on Drushen's chest. "I was afraid when you wouldn't wake up. But you're all right! This is a night of miracles!" Drushen's voice was barely audible. "Miracles?" he managed. Then he touched Innowen's leg. Though his eyes were filmed and bleary, they suddenly lit up with wonder. "Yes!" Innowen laughed, springing up and spinning on his heel. "I can walk! The Witch made it possible. She healed you, too." He slapped his thighs. "Drushen, she's such a beautiful lady, and she made me a whole man!" Joyful tears began to leak down his face. Drushen struggled up onto one elbow and swung a leg over the side of the bed. Tears misted his eyes, too, as he rose and reached for Innowen. "The gods!" he cried. "Thank the gods!" He flung up his arms. But Innowen caught his old friend's arms and pulled them down to his sides and intertwined Drushen's fingers in his own. It startled him as he realized suddenly that he was as tall as Drushen, and he bit his lip. "Stop," he said. "It wasn't any of the gods we know. It was the Witch and some strange god from another land." He swallowed, abruptly fearful. What if _________________________________________________ 30

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_________________________________________________ the gods were listening? He knew little about Ispor's gods, but he knew all gods were jealous. Still, he dared to continue. "It is to that god I owe thanks, not to the gods of Ispor who made me lame." Drushen looked at him oddly. "Witch?" He shook his head slowly. "What are you ranting about, boy? I dreamed of fire in my veins and a cool storm. There were voices. But a witch? The Witch of Shanalane?" They regarded each other uncertainly, and Drushen's face clouded over. Abruptly, though, he brightened again and caught Innowen in a fierce embrace. "I don't understand, but it doesn't matter. You can walk! Praise whatever god for it!" They held each other for a long moment until Drushen sagged back onto the bed. Innowen remembered that the Witch had said he would be weak when he awoke. And hungry. He went into the other room and hurried back with the platters Taelyn had left. Drushen waved them away. "I’m too happy to eat," he said, his voice only a whisper. "Perhaps later. But throw back those shutters, child. It's nearly morning. Let me see the first light of day." Innowen obeyed, pushing open the shutters as far as they would go. The faintest hint of dawn colored the horizon. The sun promised to rise right in their window. They would watch it together. For the first time in my life, Innowen thought, I will greet the day on my feet. Slowly, the sun climbed over the edge of the world, spreading its brilliant fire. Never had it seemed brighter or lovelier. Higher and higher it floated. Drushen reached out, caught Innowen's hand, and gave it an affectionate squeeze. The sun sailed higher, chasing away the last vestiges of night. It bathed Innowen's face with a fine warmth that spread like a rich wave over his naked chest, down his stomach, down to his legs. Suddenly, Innowen folded like a broken puppet, striking his head sharply on the floor. With a small, despairing cry he blinked away the red starflashes that filled his vision. He tried to get up. "No!" he screamed when his legs refused to move. Drushen dropped down beside him, placing his arms around the boy. The fear in his gaze mirrored Innowen's own. His lower lip trembled as he tried to pull Innowen to his feet. "They won't move, Drushen!" Innowen whispered, staring in horror at his useless limbs. "I can't move them." Taelyn rushed into the room in his nightshirt. Minarik appeared moments later still in his wet riding garments. Together, they helped Drushen lift him onto his own bed. "What happened to the boy?" Minarik asked, getting no answer from Drushen. Taelyn only shrugged. Innowen clutched at Drushen's arm and pulled him closer, wide-eyed.

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_________________________________________________ "Don't leave me," he begged. "Please, don't leave me alone!" "I’m right here," Drushen assured him. The old man crawled onto the bed and curled his body protectively around Innowen. "I'll always be here. I'll always take care of you." Weeping silent tears, he kissed the boy's cheek and brushed a hand over Innowen's hair. Minarik and Taelyn stood uncertainly at the foot of the bed, casting troubled looks at each other, muttering words that Innowen didn't understand. He didn't care. He shivered against Drushen and stared at the window. The beautiful sun sat perched on the sill, and he could hear it laughing at him.

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CHAPTER 3 INNOWEN STAYED IN bed all day. Drushen brought him food, but he ate little. Minarik came to visit and sat with him, but he was clearly puzzled by Innowen's unexplained paralysis and sullen silence. Taelyn hovered around like a worried mother. Innowen refused to talk to any of them. He wanted only to be left alone, and when he was alone he cried slow, soundless tears and rubbed his unfeeling legs. Beyond the open window, the sky segued from sweet autumn blue to somber twilight. A quiet wind blew into the room, touching him with the cool softness of a ghost's breath. He bit his lip and turned his face to the pillow. Drushen entered and worriedly brushed a hand along Innowen's cheek. When Innowen didn't respond, the old man lit a candle, set it on a bedside table, and left. Outside, darkness inundated the world. With a sob, the first sound he had made all day, Innowen clutched his coverlet and drew himself into a ball. A moment later, with a mingled sense of shock and excitement, he opened his eyes hesitantly and looked at his knees between his arms. He drew a sharp breath, then pressed his lips together, his tongue clenched between his teeth. His heart pounded. He lay utterly still, afraid to move, afraid it was only a dream, and in that moment he prayed to every god he knew. He straightened his right leg, sliding it slowly upon the smooth sheets, and knew he was not dreaming. He straightened the other. Carefully, he sat up. The soles of his feet touched the carpet. The sensation of the cool, plush weave on his skin reassured him, and he wiggled his toes experimentally. Every muscle in his body tensed as he pushed himself off the bed and stood erect. He squeezed his eyes shut, expecting to fall, and peeled them open when his limbs proved themselves. He moved cautiously toward the window, shuffling his feet, fearing to lift them too high. Something beyond the window called him. What was it? He leaned his hands on the sill and breathed deeply. Once more, the wind came to him out of the darkness like a chill, invisible serpent that twined over every part of his naked body. He felt it crawl over his face and chest, over his legs. He was alive again! A gasp and a clatter sounded from behind him. He turned. Drushen stared, ashen-faced, his jaw open. At his feet, a silver tray lay turned upside-down on the carpet. A few scraps of meat showed under the edge, and a cracked goblet rocked beside it in a spreading pool of water. His

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_________________________________________________ guardian took two steps toward him, then stopped uncertainly, staring with fear-widened eyes. "It's the night," Innowen said with barely controlled awe. He turned from Drushen and gazed past the sill again, out into the unknowable dark. No star burned in the heavens, no moon. There was only the void. "I don't think the Witch knows. But her god does." "What are you talking about?" Drushen whispered. Fear thickened the old man's voice, and Innowen felt the distance between them like a wall. "What evil—" Innowen cut him off. "It's not evil, Drushen." He hugged himself as the wind fluttered over him. "It's the night. I understand now. The daytime is my enemy. Sunlight steals my legs from me. It makes them useless. But the nighttime is mine. I can walk from sundown until dawn. That is the gift of the Witch's god." The carpet rustled as Drushen took another step and stopped again. He managed to utter, "A child of darkness? Is that what you've become?" Innowen whirled. "I'm no child, Drushen. I'm tall as you, if not as strong. I've seen eighteen springs, and I'm no longer so helpless that I have to quietly suffer being called a child. I'm a man." He clenched his fists and turned away from his guardian to stare back through the window. It was another world out there, a world unlike his cottage prison, unlike this room in Whisperstone, totally different from the world of the daytime. "At least, I'm a man at night." He closed his eyes and opened them, then walked past Drushen into the outer chamber and toward the door. "Where are you going?" his guardian called, hurrying after him. He caught Innowen's arm and spun him around. Innowen started to snap, but stopped himself and sighed. He loved Drushen; the old woodcutter was the only family he'd ever known. He couldn't be blamed if he still treated Innowen like a cripple. In time, he would rejoice, too. "For a walk," Innowen said finally, laying a hand gently on the old man's shoulder. "I've never gone for a walk by myself before." Drushen managed a weak smile, though his face was lined with worry. "Well, you'd better put something on," he said. He turned toward the table, which, the night before, had been laden with food. Someone had placed a small pile of folded garments there. His guardian lifted a pale blue chiton from the top, shook it once, and held it out to him. "This isn't our home, and you can't run naked around a grand place like this." The fabric was an incredibly fine weave. Innowen had never seen its like. Drushen handed him another cloth of equal softness to wrap about his loins. Then he draped the chiton over Innowen's body, leaving the left shoulder bare, and fastened a small silver brooch that closed the right, shoulder. The hem touched the middle of Innowen's thigh, but when he added a leather belt and laced it tight around his waist, it rose a bit higher. "Look," Drushen said, crossing to the other smaller table where the water basin sat with an oinochoe jug. In his haste the night before, Innowen had not noticed the large copper mirror behind the basin. He stared at his own image. He had seen his face as a water reflection when Drushen had carried him to bathe in the stream near the cottage, but never had he seen himself standing erect. He turned slowly, _________________________________________________ 34

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_________________________________________________ viewing himself from every angle. It was not his image, but the reflection of his movement that fascinated him. He noted with wonder how the muscles in his side rippled if he leaned a certain way, how tilting his head back exposed the veins in his neck. His chest was too narrow, he quickly decided, and his arms too thin, yet there was a grace in his body that surprised and delighted him. "You'll become vain, boy," Drushen said from the center of the room. "You have the beauty for it." Innowen didn't turn, but their gazes met in the polished metal. "The power of movement is a magic all its own," he answered. "I see that now. You've had that magic all your life, so you don't appreciate it. You don't see what a miracle it is to lift your foot from here," he pointed to a spot on the floor, "and put it here. And this is an even greater miracle." He rose onto the ball of his left foot, pirouetted with perfect control, and faced himself in the mirror once more. "But it's a magic utterly new to me, and it makes me feel..." He hesitated, looked sad for a moment, then pirouetted again. "I don't know. I'm almost glad that I could never walk until now." "It's the Witch's power you feel," Drushen said darkly. "And nobody gives something for nothing." At that, Innowen faced his guardian. "Don't they, Drushen? You found me on the road when I w as a newborn baby, and took me in. You fed me and took care of me, raised me and loved me. What do you want in return?" The hurt showed visibly in the old woodcutter's eyes, but he said nothing, only stared back silently. "I'm sorry," Innowen said, relenting. "Just don't speak ill of the Witch." Drushen hung his head. "Not if it upsets you," he agreed quietly. "But remember she is a witch. You know nothing about her, not even a name to call her by." "No one knows her name," Innowen countered. "But I owe her no less, and somehow I intend to find her." He swallowed as he tugged at the hem of the chiton and adjusted his belt. "Now I'm going for a walk. Coming?" Drushen smiled weakly again and looked askance. "I thought you wanted to go alone," he said. "You've never taken a walk by yourself, remember?" "I've never taken a walk with you, either," Innowen reminded him, and he poked his guardian in the ribs playfully with one finger. "Not without being carried, anyway." He took a step past Drushen and opened the door. "Coming?" Reluctantly, Drushen nodded. They went into the corridor together, and Drushen pointed to the left. "That way leads back toward the Great Hall," he said, and that was enough for Innowen. The stone floor was cold against his bare feet, so he set a brisk pace. His guardian, though, had no trouble keeping up. As he had noted before, Whisperstone was a maze, and they were quickly lost. He wished momentarily that he'd waited to invite Taelyn to join them, or perhaps even Minarik himself. _________________________________________________ 35

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_________________________________________________ But he was in no hurry. It was only just nightfall. He had until dawn to explore. Many of the corridors were dark, but some of them were lit with lanterns hanging on pegs, or by oil lamps suspended by small chains from beams in the ceilings. Innowen thought about simply appropriating one of the lanterns, but after all, this wasn't their home, and their host might take it unkindly. Instead, they made their way carefully from one pool of light to the next. When they passed an occasional window, they stopped. Most were shuttered tight, but one or two were slender, open embrasures barely wide enough to stand in sideways. Innowen squeezed into one and looked out. On the wall far below, he could just discern the watchfires of the sentries. He wondered if they were Minarik's men or if Kyrin was still at Whisperstone, too. Except for Drushen and Taelyn and, briefly, Minarik, he'd seen no one all day. Where was everyone? Were they still hunting the Witch? A chill wind blew suddenly on his body, forcing him back inside. They continued on, up and down staircases, through corridors both narrow and wide, lit and unlit, and at last found themselves in the entrance hall before Whisperstone's great doors. There, lamps blazed in mirrored niches, casting a rich, warm glow. Innowen considered the several passages that branched from the entrance hall and chose the one he thought he'd walked with Minarik the night before. It occurred to him that he might find his benefactor if he retraced the steps they had taken together. But as he started that way, a few sweet notes of music touched his ears. He stopped, and the music stopped. He'd heard that ethereal piping before, and he remembered the girl at Kyrin's feet. Another flurry of notes played on the air and faded. Innowen listened expectantly to the silence. "It's beautiful," Drushen said when it started and stopped again. "Can you tell where it's coming from?" Innowen shook his head, listening, hoping for more. "No, but I met the piper last night. She's as pretty as her song." A cascade of music suddenly filled the hall. Innowen looked at Drushen, and the old man's face lit up. It didn't stop so quickly this time, either. The sound flowed around them in a joyful rush. "Beautiful," Drushen repeated; his voice a reverent whisper. "This way," Innowen said, choosing the passage from which the music seemed to originate. He could feel it on his skin like a warm watery wave. His step lightened as he went; he could barely keep from dancing. The Witch had told him he had to dance to walk. But he held himself back, resisting each insistent note. When he found the piper, then he would dance. After a series of turns, the passage led them to a half-opened door. A cool breeze blew inside, carrying the music with it. Just beyond, they found an inner courtyard. The walls of Whisperstone rose up on all sides, but the stars shone brightly overhead in a narrow patch of sky. The piper sat in a small gazebo in the courtyard's center. Wrapped in a white feathered cloak to keep out the chill, she held her instrument to her lips and played, oblivious to _________________________________________________ 36

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_________________________________________________ everything as she swayed in time to her pipings. In the flickering light of the gazebo's two lamps, Innowen thought for a moment that he saw the very notes as they fluttered like tiny butterflies through the air. He blinked, and they were gone, just another odd hallucination inspired by her music. It was the same girl he'd seen the night before at Kyrin's feet, but he still didn't know her name. She was lovely, though, and he guessed her age to be about twelve or fourteen. He watched as she played with her eyes softly closed. Two lamps, suspended on thin chains, swayed lightly in the breeze and cast a wonderful play of orange and red upon her features and upon her ivory fingers as she worked the holes of her pipe. Tresses of dark hair spilled from under her ample hood. She was small and slender, and as Innowen looked at her cloak of feathers, he could not help but think of her as a delicate bird. Suddenly, she opened her eyes and saw them. The music stopped, though the pipe remained frozen at her lips. Slowly, she lowered it to her lap and turned her gaze shyly downward. Her mouth, even in the lamplight, was a dark flower that gleamed with sweet dew. "Our apologies," Drushen said, bowing. "We didn't mean to interrupt. But we heard you playing." She said nothing, but Innowen saw the smile that so subtly parted her lips. He walked closer and leaned on the gazebo's ornate wooden latticework. A leafy vine brushed his face, and he pushed it aside. The girl kept her attention fixed on her pipe and refused to look at him. Nervously, she turned the instrument over and over in her hands, then, realizing that she did it, stopped and gripped it tightly. Innowen grinned. "Scholars say the world was created by music, that the stars and the sun and the moon were mothered in a grand symphony, that the trees and the river, the wind, the seasons are all expressions of a tender cosmic ballad," He hesitated. She was beautiful, this child, and her shyness touched him strangely. "If so," he continued, "then I think you were surely that musician." She looked up slowly. Her lips formed the tiny hint of a smile as she regarded him from the corners of her eyes. "Do I look so old to you?" It was only a whisper, but her voice was as pure as her music and as sweet. "The tune you play is the breath of the world," Innowen answered. "Stop playing, and we die." Drushen nudged him in the arm. "Ispor's gods, boy, where did you ever learn this kind of talk?" To the girl, he said apologetically, "It's not my fault, that's for sure." He leaned closer to Innowen again and muttered, "It's a different kind of spell you're under now...." Innowen didn't look at his guardian, but unobtrusively found the old man's toe with his heel and put his weight on it. Drushen yelped and pulled his foot free. "Forgive him," Innowen said, giving his attention to the girl again. "He's only an old man." "That's unkind," she answered, her voice stronger than before. "He's no older than my _________________________________________________ 37

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_________________________________________________ father or Lord Minarik." She turned her smile on Drushen. "I think he's very handsome, and obviously quite strong. I've never seen such arms before." Drushen blushed and bowed very low. "Recipe for a woodcutter," Innowen mumbled. "Two strong arms, one weak mind." "Recipe for an Innowen," Drushen countered, straightening. "One mouth, two broken sticks." Innowen whirled, heat rushing into his face. Then, remembering they were not alone, he calmed himself. He didn't want to make a fool of himself in front of her, and he'd asked for that, after all. Back in the cottage, he and Drushen had always poked and jibed at each other. Mouth games, they'd called it. To their rare visitor it had sounded pretty vicious sometimes. But it had just been their way with each other, no holds ever barred and no harm ever meant. Still, that one had stung him. The girl glanced away again and rose to her feet. "I should go," she said. Was that regret in her voice? Innowen turned away from Drushen. "Stay," he said. "Please." She looked at the pipe in her hands, then at last met his gaze. Her eyes were large and dark, and they sparkled with reflected lamplight. "What's your name?" he asked. She lowered her gaze again as she answered. "Dyan." "Dyan," he repeated. "Two more notes of beautiful music." Drushen made a strangled noise, then covered his mouth and feigned a coughing fit. "Your name is Innocent," she said. "I overheard Minarik and Taelyn talking today. They said you were ill." She looked up once more. He loved her eyes. "A passing thing," he answered. "I'm better now. In fact, I feel like dancing. Would you play for me?" "Dyan!" Her face went pale. Innowen spun around to see who dared to shout at her. Then he stiffened. Drushen shot a glance at him, his brow furrowing in question and confusion, and Innowen reminded himself his guardian had not yet met Kyrin. Ispor's new king marched across the courtyard toward them, his face full of rage. He thrust a finger at Dyan. "Get to your room, girl!" Dyan fled, her feathered cloak rustling, the hood slipping from her head and her dark hair flying as she hurried over the smooth paving stones, through the door and into the depths of Whisperstone. Angrily, Innowen watched her go. "You are Minarik's guests," Kyrin said with barely controlled menace. "But stay away from _________________________________________________ 38

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_________________________________________________ my daughter. You may have fooled my Uncle, but I know your kind. I know what you want." He gripped the hilt of his sword and exposed a portion of its bronze length. The lamplight rippled on its edge. "If you touch her, if you even talk to her again, I'll cut off your hands." Drushen stepped between them, his hands clenching into huge fists, but Innowen caught his shoulder and tried to pull him back as the two men regarded each other, Drushen breathing rapidly, Kyrin's eyes burning with anger and challenge. Finally, Kyrin sheathed his blade, though his anger did not abate. He backed off a step. "Your son has saved your life," he said arrogantly. "My son," Drushen sneered, "has saved your teeth." "Drushen, shut up!" Innowen pushed his guardian away and positioned himself between the two men. To Kyrin he said, "I didn't know she was your daughter. I heard her playing, that's all, and we exchanged a greeting. I meant no offense." Kyrin's gaze burned into him. "Make sure you understand me, then. Stay away from her. She is uncorrupted, and I mean to keep her that way." He looked at Drushen, then back to Innowen. "This time I'll forgive his insult. It wouldn't be polite to sully my uncle's fine courtyard with common blood for so little reason." He retreated a few more steps before he turned his back to them and set after his daughter. Drushen gripped Innowen's shoulder. "You should have let me bend his spine a little, boy. Not too much, mind you, just enough to make him squeal." Innowen embraced his guardian, knowing full well that Drushen could have carried out such a threat. But he loved this old man. It didn't escape his notice that Drushen had stepped between him and Kyrin. And now that he thought of it, his chest swelled with pride that he had done the same thing when Kyrin turned on Drushen. He could never have done that before when his legs were useless twigs. Now, though, he could walk, and he could stand beside his friends. He had the Witch of Shanalane to thank for that. That reminded him. To walk, she had said, you must dance. He had not yet danced, and the night was passing. "You would have bent his spine, would you?" Innowen said with a wry grin. "You'd have knocked out his teeth?" He clapped Drushen on the shoulder and made a show of straightening the woodcutter's tunic. "You'd have done that to Kyrin, your king, king of Ispor?" He hugged Drushen and kissed his cheek politely. "I didn't know how much you cared for me." Drushen pushed his charge back. "Kyrin?" he sputtered, his face clouding with shock at Innowen's news. "What do you mean, calling him king of Ispor? What happened to Koryan?" Innowen bit his lip. Koryan was dead, but how could he tell Drushen without also explaining that the Witch of Shanalane was accused of his murder? Drushen wouldn't understand; he was already too upset about their meeting and what her magic had done for him. Yet he didn't want to lie to his guardian, either. He hated lying.

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_________________________________________________ Drushen waited impatiently for an answer, and at last, Innowen made his choice. "Koryan is dead, that's all I know." He turned away and stared at the empty chair in the gazebo where Dyan had sat. "I'm only a woodcutter's waif. They don't tell me state secrets." "But how did you find out?" Drushen pressed. Innowen shrugged. "Minarik told me on the ride here. You were still sick and unconscious." The wind blew down into the courtyard, making a low susurrus as it swept along the walls and over the paving stones. The gazebo creaked musically under the gentle force, and the green vines that grew on it rustled. Innowen listened, then raised one arm gracefully. He leaned to the side and extended into a lunge. He stepped quickly through and drew himself erect as he raised his other arm and repeated the same phrase of movement. "What are you doing?" Drushen asked uneasily. Innowen closed his eyes. "Dancing," he whispered. Drushen grunted, and Innowen heard the old man's steps on the stones as he moved out of the way. "I don't know any dance like that," Drushen commented. Innowen didn't miss the strange edge in Drushen's voice, but he ignored his guardian. The wind was with him now, and from somewhere came an echo of Dyan's pipe. That was impossible, yet he heard it. The rush of the wind and the sound of her music filled his head. And there was the Witch's storm. The memory of thunder made a wild timpani that drove him. He spun and whirled as the pipe ascended an impossible scale, straining for notes undreamt of. He leaped, and the wind seemed almost to lift and buoy him. His muscles throbbed with energy, stretching in ways they never had before. Sweat quickly beaded on his skin; it ran in thick streams down his neck and chest until the chiton was soaked and clung to him like a rag. Around the gazebo he moved, throwing back his head with every turn of his body, stopping before Drushen. He jumped, and his right leg described a perfect arc above his guardian's head. He pivoted three times on the ball of his left foot, stopped and clapped his hands together twice under the old woodcutter's nose. He whirled and stopped, leaped and turned and stopped. Each time he stopped, it seemed the world stopped with him and resumed its dance when he did. He lifted one leg out before him and moved it to the side, a slow, perfectly controlled motion. The thigh muscle bulged with the effort. Sweat glistened there, catching the lamplight as he held it high. The muscle began to quiver, a delicious sensation, and he lifted the leg higher still, pointing his toe, extending his line as far as possible. Suddenly, another movement caught his eye. With the lamps at his back, his shadow loomed on the far wall. It extended its leg just as he did, but that dark limb seemed to go on forever, reaching around the courtyard. He moved an arm, and his shadow moved, too, with an elongated grace, imitating his motion. He lunged, and it lunged, covering more distance, filling more space, mocking him with its immensity. But Innowen would not be mocked, not by his own shadow. He challenged it instead, _________________________________________________ 40

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_________________________________________________ moving with a wild tempestuous frenzy, daring it to follow. It whirled as he whirled, leaped as he did. He couldn't defeat it, he realized. It was not a competitor, but a partner. They danced, his shadow and he, each the equal of the other, one black and ominous and insubstantial, the other in the light, gleaming with sweat-sheen. He rolled his head back between his shoulders and stared at the small patch of sky visible above Whisperstone. Suddenly the stars were not stars at all, but the eyes of the gods all turned upon him. He danced for the hosts of heaven, danced until his heart was close to bursting. He leaped and touched the ground, crouched like an animal, ready to spring again. He snapped his head to the side sharply. One hand shot upward to grasp those stars. And froze. The last burst of thunder shivered and rolled away. The last flurry of pipesong diminished and faded. The wind receded. Innowen sustained his effort until the final quivering notes melted away into the night. Then the silence closed in upon him, and he sank to the ground. A small cry escaped his lips as he sprawled upon the cold stones and gasped for breath. He lay there for a moment, prostrate with exhaustion, too weak to move. Gradually, his heartbeat slowed, and the trembling left his limbs. He raised himself onto his elbows. "What did you think?" he asked Drushen, his chest still heaving as he struggled to get out the words. Drushen didn't answer. He stood mutely, hiding his face in his hands. His huge body shook all over. Innowen got to his feet and hurried to his guardian's side to see what was the matter. He slipped one arm around his old friend's shoulder. "Drushen, what is it?" he asked in a hushed tone. "What is it?" Drushen took his hands from his face and regarded Innowen as if he were a stranger. Slipping free of Innowen's arm, he backed away a few paces and stared at Innowen again. His eyes were full of fear. Innowen went to him and tried once more to embrace him, to reassure him. Something about his dance had upset his guardian. But Drushen wouldn't let him near. He knocked Innowen's arms away when Innowen reached for him, and backed quickly toward the door. "No!" he whispered. "Stay away!" The old man lingered only a moment more, then turned and walked stiffly into the keep. Innowen let him go. Alone, confused, he walked back to the gazebo and sat down in the only chair and tried to think. He didn't know what to make of the old man's reaction. Drushen had been afraid of him, Drushen, who had killed a wolf with his bare hands one winter when it attacked him at the woodpile as he fetched fuel for the fireplace. Innowen had seen worry on that rough, weathered face before. He'd seen desperation, and outright rage. But never had he seen Drushen in such a state. The unmistakable fear in his eyes, that had been plain enough to see. But there'd been something else, too. Something Innowen didn't understand. He jumped up and ran across the courtyard. He had to find Drushen and learn what was the matter. The Witch had only healed his legs, that was all. That was nothing to fear. It was a gift, a blessing, even if he could only walk at night. Drushen had to see that. He had to. He raced into the keep, back down the corridor they had taken to the courtyard and into the main hall. A sweeping stone staircase ascended to the upper levels, and he took the steps _________________________________________________ 41

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_________________________________________________ two at a time. The passages bent and twisted, seemingly without logic or reason. Sometimes lamplight illumined his way. Sometimes he ran in darkness. He began to fear that he was lost until at last he entered a familiar corridor. He stopped just outside the door to his quarters and waited for his breathing to calm. Then he pushed it open quietly. Drushen was not in the first room. Innowen found him standing before the opened window in the second, staring outward, biting the knuckles of one hand. "Don't come in," Drushen warned. "Go away." "Drushen, I had to dance," Innowen tried to explain from the archway. "The music was so powerful...." The woodcutter refused to look at him. "There wasn't any music!" he snapped, driving a fist against the stone wall. "I heard it!" Innowen insisted. "The wind and Dyan's pipe and the thunder. Maybe it was in my head, I don't know. It had to be, because the sky was so clear. All those stars! I don't understand everything, yet. But why are you so angry with me?" Drushen spun around. In the shadow it was impossible to see his face. Innowen wished uselessly that he had lit a candle or grabbed the lamp from the other room. His guardian came toward him with outstretched arms. "Angry with you, child?" But before he reached Innowen, the old man stopped and clutched his hands to his chest. There was still half the room between them. "No, I couldn't be angry with you. I couldn't." Suddenly, he covered his eyes and rubbed his fists in the sockets. "But what I saw! You were beautiful! It made me feel things! It made me... You made me want..." Innowen moved swiftly, reaching his guardian and flinging his arms around his shoulders. "What, Drushen? What did you want?" "Don't touch me!" Drushen pushed him back with a force that sent him sprawling in the middle of the floor. "You don't know! Gods, help me! I never would have! I never meant to!" Innowen rose slowly, uncertainly, as Drushen took a step toward him. In the dim light that seeped from the other room, he saw his guardian's face and the anguish there. But there was more, too, and worse. Drushen's eyes burned with a dark desire. "I never would have hurt you," Drushen whispered, coming closer, bending down. Innowen crawled back until the wall stopped his retreat. "I never would have. I promise I won't." The old man shook his head from side to side, but his gaze never left Innowen. "You shine like the moon, boy. You know that? So beautiful!" Drushen's huge hands caught Innowen around the waist and lifted him as if he were no more than a doll. Innowen pushed uselessly at his guardian, suddenly frightened and acutely aware of Drushen's powerful strength. "Drushen!" he screamed. The woodcutter didn't say anything as he carried Innowen across the room. "Drushen," Innowen appealed once more, resisting the urge to scream this time, trying instead to sound reasonable and calm. "Please, stop."

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_________________________________________________ "I can't!" Drushen hissed, his breath hard and ragged. He laid Innowen on the bed, pinned him there with one hand, and lifted the blue hem of his chiton with the other. He leaned closer and placed a kiss on the boy's cheek. "Drushen!" Innowen shouted as he tried to roll off the bed's far side. But a hand crushed down on his mouth, pinning him to the pillow, preventing any more cries. The old man loomed over him like a big monstrous cat, and Innowen was the mouse. He couldn't get free! "Be quiet," Drushen urged with a terrible, certain calm. "I won't hurt you, child. But your dance! Oh, when I saw you dance." He spoke with a dreadful serenity as he unfastened Innowen's garments. Innowen squeezed his eyes shut, barely able to breathe for the hand over his face. He kicked and flailed to little avail, and the woodcutter ignored his feeble blows. A slight wind brushed over his suddenly naked flesh, and a hot hand began to massage his belly. "Dance for me, Innocent!" Drushen moaned softly. "Dance for me now." Drushen bent down and kissed him in earnest. Innowen's head swam, and tears spilled from his eyes. The old man's hands roamed through his hair and caressed every part of him, creating fire wherever they touched, strange heatless fire that grew and spread all through him. He lay dumbfounded, burning with a terrible, dark fear and an awful pleasure. Too frightened to look, he turned his face to the pillow and covered his eyes with an arm. When Drushen entered him, he bit his lip, not daring to scream. The bed beneath him seemed to disappear; he melted into endless darkness, floated to a confusion of sensations, all beyond joy or pain, lost in a cruelly consuming tenderness. He awoke later with the taste of Drushen still in his mouth. From the floor by the bed came a low, pitiful sobbing. Innowen listened weakly until he was sure of who it was. Then, he turned on his side to look. The woodcutter huddled on the carpets, clutching the edge of the bedsheet in one hand as tears streamed down his face. He looked up at Innowen. "I'm sorry!" he said. "I couldn't stop myself. Innowen, I never would have hurt you!" Drushen got to his knees. His elbows pressed on the bed, and Innowen cowered away. "Forgive me," he begged. "I don't know what possessed me. Forgive me, Innowen!" But Innowen slunk further back, his throat dry, his body trembling all over. "Innowen!" Drushen stared in horror and shame. He extended one hand toward his charge while the fingers of the other clawed in the bedclothes. Abruptly, he let go a cry of pure anguish and leaped to his feet. "I've got to get away," Drushen said in a stricken whisper. He shot a look wildly around the room, as a trapped animal might. "Far away from you before it's too late." He looked once more at Innowen, then fled. "I'm sorry! Sorry!" Innowen heard the door wrench open, and Drushen's panicked footsteps echoed loudly in the outer corridor until they gradually faded. He rolled onto his back, shut his eyes, and wept. Out of the darkness came the memory of Drushen's wide, pleading eyes to haunt and terrify him. Slowly, he curled into a ball and hugged himself. He burned all over with strange sensations, yet he felt hollow. His tears fell on the sheets, which were already damp with sweat. No matter how he tried, he couldn't stop them. _________________________________________________ 43

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_________________________________________________ Alone, he thought forlornly, utterly alone. It was his greatest fear. He turned over onto his back again, opened his eyes, and looked to the sky beyond the window. He waited for the sun to rise, and he waited for the life to drain from his legs. He waited for Drushen to return, and knew he would not.

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CHAPTER 4 INNOWEN DIDN'T SLEEP at all that night, and the sun was high in the sky when someone knocked at his door. He didn't answer. After a moment, they went away. He listened to the receding steps, remembering Drushen. Sometime later there was another knock. He didn't want to see anyone, didn't want to talk, and shortly, the corridor echoed again with retreating footsteps. It was almost noon when someone knocked again. He refused to answer, but this time the door opened anyway. Taelyn poked his head through the archway. "Are you awake?" he whispered. Taking a step into the room, he stopped, made a face, and pinched his nostrils shut with his fingers. "Oh gods!" he exclaimed in disgust. "You've soiled the sheets, young man. Couldn't you reach the slop jar? It's right under the bed!" Innowen said nothing, just turned his head to the side on the pillow and looked away. "Don't you play silent on me, boy!" Taelyn snapped. "You may be Lord Minarik's guest, but I'm the one who cleans up the messes around here. Now get out of that bed and wash yourself. Those sheets have to be scrubbed at once, or they'll never look clean again." He clapped his hands together sharply. "Move!" Innowen closed his eyes. "I can't walk," he said without emotion. Languidly, he draped one arm over his eyes. Taelyn came closer and bent over the bed. The distaste on his face was obvious as he pulled Innowen's hands down and peered at him carefully. "Where's your guardian?" he asked, suddenly quiet, his anger fading, a note of concern creeping into his voice. Innowen pulled his hand free and covered his face again. "Gone." Taelyn stood there a moment. "I'm going to get Minarik," he said finally. "But first, a drink for you. You're feverish." He left Innowen's bedside, went into the other room, and returned with an earthen drinking cup and an ornately decorated hydria jar. He poured a half measure of water into the cup and lifted Innowen's head while he held it for him to sip. Innowen only moistened his lips a little and turned aside again. "I'll get Minarik," Taelyn repeated, setting both cup and vessel where Innowen could reach them easily. Once more, Innowen found himself alone listening to the sound of fading footsteps. He stared at Drushen's unused bed on the other side of the room, then shut his eyes and shed thick silent tears until, at last, he drew his hand across his face and wiped his nose. Taelyn had gone for Minarik, and lying in his own mess was shame enough. He would not cry before the

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_________________________________________________ Lord of Whisperstone if he could help it. He pushed against the bed with his hands and drew his back up against the wall until he could sit up. Beyond the window, the day was bright and crisp, but it failed to cheer him. He pulled the coverlet up to his chest and waited, thinking of Drushen and fighting back the tears that threatened to come again. Minarik touched his shoulder. Innowen had not heard him enter. He looked up into his benefactor's worried gaze, and then down at his own dead legs. Taelyn came in behind Minarik with an armload of clean bedding, which he set down on Drushen's empty bed before coming to peer over his master's shoulder. "How are you, boy?" Minarik said, settling gingerly on the edge of the bed. Innowen turned his gaze slowly back to the lord. Minarik looked terrible. His faced appeared drawn and sleep-deprived. Shadows circled his eyes, and dirt runneled the deep lines of his neck and brow. He smelled, too, of sweat and horse-froth, as though he had ridden some long distance. Yet he had taken time to come see his guest. "The day passes," Innowen answered in a flat voice, realizing he owed Minarik the courtesy of a response. Still, he could generate no enthusiasm. His lids quivered shut, and he hugged the coverlet as a chill rippled through him. "Drushen is gone." "I know," Minarik said quietly. "The gate guard told me he left in the middle of the night, taking nothing with him. He said your Drushen was weeping, and that he mumbled a name over and over as he passed through the gate." A hand brushed tenderly over Innowen's damp forehead and pushed back a lock of hair. "Your name, Innocent." Though he tried to stop it, a droplet squeezed from Innowen's eye and glided down his cheek. He reached up to intercept it, but Minarik instead caught it with his fingertip and held it up to sparkle in the light. "What passed between you and your guardian last night, boy, to cause you both such grief?" Minarik lowered his hand and wiped the bit of moisture on his tunic near his heart. "The love you bore for each other was plain enough. No father and son could have shown more." Innowen remembered the pain of Drushen's hands upon him, so strong, hurting, pinning him. Again, confusion and fear swept over him, so powerful, numbing. Yet he recalled also, one layer of memory over another, his guardian's anguish, his pleas for forgiveness, the sorrow and shame on the old woodcutter's face. What had driven Drushen to hurt him? He clenched his fists in the coverlet, struggling to make sense of it, knowing only that some dark desire had possessed his guardian last night and made them both its victim. How could he explain to Minarik? How could he tell such an evil truth, or speak of the deed that had been consummated under his roof? However he disliked it, he knew he had to lie again. "We argued," he started honestly enough. "About the Witch, and about my legs." Minarik stopped him. "You are crippled, then, as I'd heard." He nodded with sudden understanding as he lifted one of Innowen's arms and examined it closely. "I knew there was something odd about you. See? The calluses on your elbows where no normal man would _________________________________________________ 46

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_________________________________________________ have them. And the strange, careful way you walk as if any moment you expect to fall. This is the Witch's work, isn't it?" Minarik ran a hand along Innowen's thigh down to his knee. "She made you whole again." "Only during the nighttime hours," Innowen said softly. "From sunrise to sunset I'm still half a man." Minarik looked long and hard at Innowen, then turned away and rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. After a moment, he turned back again, and his features settled into an expression of great weariness. "None of this explains why Drushen ran away." Innowen drew a breath and let it out slowly. "He didn't know about the Witch's part in this. He thought it was some miracle from the gods. But last night I told him the truth." He looked up and met Minarik's gaze with directness. "Drushen's very superstitious, and he'd. heard stories about the Witch of Shanalane. He said terrible things, and when I defended her, he said I was abathakati—tainted." Suddenly, he covered his face; he felt shame, but this lie was far better than the truth. "He hurt me." Innowen continued finally. He drew a deep breath and leaned his head back against the wall. That, at least, was no untruth. "And I hit him. I'd never done that before. He took it as proof of my utter corruption and fled." He rubbed a hand over his eyes and looked beyond the window. "Now I'm alone. Drushen won't come back, and I have no one." Taelyn stepped closer. "Lord," he said, bending over Minarik. "You haven't slept all night. You should rest. I'll see that the boy is bathed and the room cleaned. The two of you can continue this discussion later." Minarik waved him back, then rubbed his eyes as Innowen had done, and rose from the bedside. He shot a smile at Innowen. "You're not the only who needs a bath—I don't know which of us is worse." He sniffed himself and made a face before looking to his slave. "You're right, though, Taelyn. We can continue this, but after we've cleaned ourselves." He leaned down and rumpled Innowen's hair. To Innowen's surprise, he found he didn't mind. "You look after Innocent," Minarik went on, "and when he's presentable, carry him down to the courtyard. See that there's food waiting, too." Taelyn protested. "You need sleep, my lord." Minarik put on a patient grin. "You fret too much, old friend. I'm stronger than you think. Riding around pointlessly all night is admittedly a bit tiring, but it only takes an argument with Kyrin to stir the blood again, and mine's been whipped to a froth." He looked back to Innowen. "I'll join you in the courtyard shortly." Then turning again to Taelyn, "He doesn't look half as bad as you said." Taelyn put on an exaggerated frown. "He perked up deliberately to make me seem like a liar." Minarik's grin widened, then he shrugged and left the room. Taelyn followed his lord but returned moments later with the wash basin and a cloth. He poured water from the hydria jar by Innowen's bed into the basin. "I like him," Innowen confided as Taelyn pulled away his coverlet and began to clean him. "But the villagers in Shandisti almost never speak of him. Why is that?" _________________________________________________ 47

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_________________________________________________ Taelyn rinsed the cloth, wrung it, and continued his ministrations. "Minarik seldom leaves Whisperstone anymore, except to hunt. This business with Kyrin and the Witch of Shanalane has taken him farther from the gates of his keep than he's ventured in years and years. He entertains few guests, he visits no one, and he stays out of other people's business." Taelyn sighed. "He uses these walls to shut out the whole world." "But why?" Innowen wondered aloud. Taelyn shrugged. "A woman," he answered glumly. "It's always a woman, isn't it? Years ago he fell in love. None of us ever saw her, mind you. But nearly every night he would ride from the gates when the sun declined, and each dawn he would return. The horse would be halfdead, but his smile would be brighter than the sun itself." Taelyn rolled Innowen onto his belly and wet the cloth again. The water was cool, and there was a welcome, comforting pleasure in being cared for. "It went on for nearly the whole of one summer. Then one night, Minarik returned earlier than usual. It was just before the stroke of midnight, and his horse was lathered as if he'd tried to ride the beast into the ground. He just left the poor animal standing untended at the gates and shut himself in his rooms. For three days he spoke no word to anyone." "She rejected him?" Innowen asked. "No one knows what happened," Taelyn answered. He dropped the cloth in the basin and set it on the floor beside the hydria jug. "When our lord finally emerged again, he was as you see him now, pleasant and kind, from all appearances a man for men to envy, and he went about his life completely as if nothing was amiss. But from that time on, he almost never left the confines of Whisperstone." "And no one ever found out who the lady was?" Innowen persisted as Taelyn lifted and carried him to the other bed and set him down. Taelyn only shook his head as he turned to strip away the soiled coverlets and sheets. "He never breathed her name." "You never tried to find out?" Taelyn frowned as he dropped the bundle of bedding on the floor. "My duty is to care for my lord and his house...." "You did try," Innowen interrupted with a careful smirk. Again, Taelyn shook his head. "No. It was clear Minarik wanted to forget some deep pain. What good would it have done for me, or anyone, to pick at his scabs?" He snatched up one of the clean sheets he had brought and snapped it in the air before spreading it upon the bed. Before it settled smoothly, though, he jerked it away. "Oh, this won't do at all. We'll have to leave the mattress to dry." He folded the sheet again and returned it to the fresh pile. Innowen watched Taelyn as he worked. At first, he had thought this slave to be quite a gossip, so freely did he talk about his lord's personal business. But there was something familiar about the way Taelyn spoke of Minarik, some light in his eye, a particular set to his chin. And when Taelyn spoke again, Innowen failed to understand the words, for it was Drushen's voice _________________________________________________ 48

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_________________________________________________ that filled the room. He saw, then, the love that slave bore for master. But was it Drushen's dark love? That he -couldn't tell. It was plain, though, that in Taelyn's heart there was room for nothing else but service to his lord. Innowen wondered where Drushen had gone. Even though the hurt and shame of last night were not forgotten, he was worried about his guardian and feared he might never see him again. "You're doing it again!" Taelyn said, snapping his fingers under Innowen's nose. "Minarik walks in and you're attentive as a new bride to her husband. Then he leaves, and you're in and out, just the way I found you, like sunshine on a cloudy day. Did you hear what I said?" "I'm sorry," Innowen answered honestly, "I didn't." "I said, you're too heavy for me to carry all the way to the courtyard. I'm no woodcutter, after all. I'll call two servants to take you down, though they won't be happy about it. Everyone's asleep after chasing about the countryside all night." He disappeared through the archway and returned with clean garments similar to the ones Drushen had given him the night before. "Put these on." He tossed them from the arch and was gone before Innowen could question him further. Innowen dressed himself and waited. He tried not to think about Drushen, but time and again his thoughts turned to the old man, until a dark mood began to settle upon him. He shook himself, trying to resist it, but the mood only took a stronger hold. What's to become of me without him? he thought. Two strangers entered his room and made short bows. They looked very tired, and Innowen realized that, like their lord, these men had been up all night. "We're to bear you to the courtyard," one of them said, coming forward. The other followed, and together they lifted him upon crossed hands. Innowen draped his arms about their shoulders to steady himself. "My thanks," he said courteously when they entered the courtyard and approached the gazebo. A second high-backed chair had been placed directly across from the other, and they lowered him carefully into it. The cushions were luxurious; he ran his hands over the finely padded arms. Behind his bearers came three more slaves. One carried a small table, another a silver tray with goblets and an oinochoe jug decorated with an elaborate floral pattern. The third bore two serving dishes, one heaped with small meat cakes, the other with sliced fruit, dates and nuts. Innowen watched steam rise from the cakes and realized he was quite hungry. He licked his lips and inhaled the aroma. "Lord Minarik will join you shortly," the last servant informed him. "He wishes that you help yourself until he arrives." They left him alone in the gazebo. He stared at the warm cakes but decided to wait for Minarik. The table was close enough, though, and he filled one goblet. To his surprise he poured, not water, but wine. He had seldom tasted wine. Drushen had not been able to afford it. _________________________________________________ 49

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_________________________________________________ No, he would not think of Drushen. He sipped the wine, savoring its potent, unfamiliar taste. It wasn't as wonderful as he'd expected, but he had a feeling he could grow to like it. He took another sip and gazed up at the sky, so blue and cloudless for this time of autumn. It was comfortably warm, too. He studied the walls of Whisperstone block by block as they rose high around him, noting with disinterest the small shuttered apartment windows that dotted its heights. He ran his fingernails over the chair arms and over his unfeeling thighs. At last, he munched a single date. "Did you taste the cakes? I have the best kitchen staff in the land." Bearing a small bowl, which he placed on the table near at hand, Minarik stepped into the gazebo and smiled as he sat down in the chair opposite Innowen. He had bathed and changed. His garments were regal cloth-of-gold, and he shimmered like one of Ispor's gods. He poured wine into the other goblet, lifted it, then spilled a small quantity on the boards at his feet before he drank. The red liquid quickly ran between the cracks. "Why did you do that?" Innowen asked, lifting his own goblet. "Men die, are placed in the earth and become, in time, no more than the dust at our feet," the Lord of Whisperstone explained with a mixture of solemnity and amusement. "So spill a little wine to wet the lips of those who've gone before us." Innowen considered Minarik's words, then tipped his own cup. No doubt the nobles had many customs, he reflected, which common people could ill afford. Most of the folks in his acquaintance would have blanched at such a senseless waste. "Not too much," his benefactor cautioned with a grin. "The dead have a notoriously dull sense of taste, and this is a very rare vintage." He took another sip from his own cup, then set it aside and reached for the bowl he had brought. He lifted from it a wet, white cloth, wrung a bit of water from it, and leaned toward Innowen. Gently, he passed the cloth over each of Innowen's hands, then over his own, and returned it to the bowl. He reached for a meat cake. "Now try one of these," he suggested. "I promise you, they're wonderful." They were indeed. Some were stuffed with bits of venison, others with pork or lamb. Some were seasoned with expensive spices that Innowen had never sampled. He ate four cakes and washed them down with wine. Then he ate four more. When his belly was full, he settled back in his chair. He couldn't remember ever feeling so stuffed. Nevertheless, he forced down one more cake for politeness' sake. It wouldn't do to let Minarik think his food was unsatisfactory. While he ate, Minarik watched him. Innowen successfully ignored him while he eased his hunger. As he munched his last cake, though, it began to bother him. No word had been spoken during their meal. Innowen consumed his final crumb, licked his fingers, and waited patiently for his host to finish a last bite of fruit. When it was gone, Minarik leaned forward and refilled both their goblets. "You've been very kind to me," Innowen said somewhat shyly. He tasted the wine once more, then put it aside. Rare it might be, and with food the taste was not too bad. But just to drink? Maybe he would grow to like it, and maybe not. Minarik also set his cup aside. "Then maybe we can be honest with each Other," he said, settling himself more comfortably in his chair. "Tell me about the Witch of Shanalane." _________________________________________________ 50

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_________________________________________________ Innowen frowned. "Is that the price for kindness these days?" he dared. "Betrayal? I know why you were up all night. You were hunting for her." Minarik nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Innowen. "I, my soldiers, my servants, any man who could ride." He hesitated, then put on a wry grin. "Except Taelyn. He hates horses, so I left him here to coordinate incoming reports." "You didn't catch her, did you?" Minarik snorted. "Of course not. She's long gone from these parts. You and I know that, but it's tougher to convince Kyrin." He looked away suddenly and drew a slow breath. "I'm not asking you to betray her, Innocent. Just tell me about her—how she looked, what she did, what she said. Anything you feel comfortable talking about." Innowen regarded the man across from him, noting the change in Minarik's mood. Though he tried to disguise it, there was the subtle tension of a military man on the verge of gaining information. It was there in the way he leaned slightly forward in his chair while trying to appear relaxed, in the way he kept his hands unnaturally still. Innowen peered straight into his benefactor's eyes, wondering just how much he could trust Minarik. "She was beautiful," he began cautiously. The Lord of Whisperstone gave a barely perceptible nod. "She glowed with an ivory light," he went on. "It almost hurt my eyes. Her lips..." He stopped, picked up his winecup and took a drink. He held the liquid in his mouth for a long time. "Her lips?" Minarik pressed. Innowen swallowed. "Like a flower," he answered finally. "Like a rose." "She touched you?" Innowen thought back. "I think so. I don't know. Maybe, when she healed my legs." He took another drink, unmindful of the taste. Neither said anything after that, and Innowen grew slowly aware of the silence. He turned the cup nervously between his hands, stared at the ruby contents, and waited. Minarik sat with his eyes closed, his lips a thin, taut line. At last, his host spoke. "Dark-haired. Dark as the night." Minarik said it as if it were a fact. "Blond," Innowen contradicted. Minarik pursed his lips thoughtfully as he shook his head. "What about your legs? You say she healed you, and I believe that. I know she's a woman of great power. Yet, now you're—" He almost said crippled. Innowen saw his mouth start to form the hated word, but Minarik caught himself: "—incapacitated once more," he finished tactfully. Innowen leaned back in his chair and bit his lip. "She said I would be whole again, that I

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_________________________________________________ would walk." He gripped the arms of the chair suddenly until the muscles stood out on his arms. "She was half as good as her word. From sundown to dawn my legs are as good as any man's." "And with the sunrise," Minarik interrupted, "you are crippled once more." He didn't dodge the word that time. Innowen nodded. "But no less a man," Minarik added with great seriousness. Innowen shrugged, then bit his lip again and closed his eyes. As before, the silence grew between them. Innowen heard the rustle of the lord's crisp raiments and the sound of pouring wine as Minarik refilled his cup. The breeze whispered ever so lightly through the vines that grew on the gazebo. In the sky, a pair of birds fluttering over the courtyard called to each other, their song sweet and distant. "You think you love her, don't you?" The words cut the stillness and Innowen's heart like a fine bronze edge. He opened his eyes, and his gaze locked with Minarik's. "I know it," he answered firmly. "I can't help myself." Something flickered in Minarik's eyes. Innowen froze, held himself perfectly still, not daring to move for a long moment. Then, slowly he let out a breath. With a sudden insight, he understood the bond he shared with Whisperstone's lord. "You love her, too," he said gently. "She's the lady from your past, the one Taelyn told me about." "Taelyn talks too much," Minarik answered, rising. He leaned against the side of the gazebo, and it gave a small creak under the burden of his weight. Abruptly, he changed the subject. "What do you plan to do, Innocent, now that your guardian is gone?" "My name is Innowen," he calmly corrected. Then he put his chin into one palm and thought. "I've got to find her," he announced. "I don't think she knows that her magic went wrong, that I can't walk by day." He scratched his chin. "And she said something about seeing my destiny in a bowl of water. I think I want to find out what she saw." Minarik folded his arms across his chest as he regarded Innowen. "What about your guardian?" Innowen looked away. "I guess I have to find him, too." Minarik picked up his winecup, drained it, and set it back on the table. "Wait here," he instructed, as if forgetting how unlikely it was that Innowen would go anywhere. He left the gazebo without another word, crossed the courtyard, and disappeared inside. Innowen folded his hands in his lap and stared at them. He hadn't told Minarik everything. He hadn't told him about the dancing, how he had to dance to keep the Witch's spell intact. That was as much dishonesty as lying, wasn't it? He had never lied before he met the Witch.

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_________________________________________________ Since then, he'd told many lies, and one lie just seemed to lead to another. Could it be true, as Drushen had tried to warn him? Could her dark magic corrupt him so easily? He gazed upward. Through the gaps of the trellis that made the gazebo's roof, the sun shone down and warmed his face. He stared at the sky, and suddenly he hated its soft blue color. He wished for the blackness of night, wished for life to return to his legs. Why hadn't the Witch told him about the sun? Had she even known? So many questions plagued him. And now to find that he and Minarik were rivals! He looked at the table with its platters of food, the goblets, the oinochoe jug, and the bowl containing the cloth with which Minarik had washed his hands, and he gave it a shove. It fell over, spilling everything. Wine pumped from the jug, a rich red stream that spread over the floor and seeped between the cracks of the boards. Some of the meat cakes lay in the flow and sopped up the liquid. Very quickly, they looked like old clots from hideous wounds. Drushen, you bastard! Innowen slammed his fists on his unfeeling legs. Why? Why? He squeezed his eyes shut, but not to stop any tears. He was done with weeping. It was anger that filled him 'instead, burned him from the inside out, and when the fire was spent he leaned his head back wearily and sighed. He didn't know how long Minarik was gone. But a shadow settled over him, and when he opened his eyes the Lord of Whisperstone stood there. "You fell asleep," Minarik said. Innowen blinked as he righted himself in the chair. "I guess I did." He cast a glance at the mess on the gazebo floor. "I must have knocked the table over, too. Forgive me." Minarik shrugged as he sat down. "The servants will take care of it." He looked askance for a moment, then faced Innowen again. "Do you have any idea at all who your parents were, boy, or what became of them?" Innowen shook his head and answered with only a trace of bitterness. "Drushen found me on the forest road when I was a baby. My parents had left me there to die, rather than bear the shame of a less than perfect child." There was an intensity in Minarik's face that made it hard to meet his gaze. "Now Drushen is gone," Minarik said, hesitating as if expecting some comment, but Innowen said nothing. "You say you want to search for the Witch. But how will you do that? You have no money, no one to look after you." "I'll find a way," Innowen answered roughly. "You don't have to remind me that I'm crippled. I'm not! I'll walk by night to find her, and sleep by day. I'm not that much different from normal men. You live your life in the sunlight, but when night comes and you take to your bed, you might as well be crippled. The world doesn't begin and end with the sun." Minarik gave him a hard look, and Innowen wondered if he had dared too much to speak with such anger. Yet he did not repent, nor did Minarik reproach him. "I have no son," the lord said slowly, "no children at all." His gaze never left Innowen as he took a ring from his finger. "I will adopt you, Innowen, if you agree." Innowen's jaw dropped. Then he stuttered, "But I can't stay here! I have to find the Witch _________________________________________________ 53

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_________________________________________________ and Drushen!" "I know," Minarik replied calmly, "and as my son, you'll have money, prestige, everything you need to help you. You'll have status and position. That will get you into places you could never go alone. You'll find my name is known in some lands even beyond Ispor." Minarik leaned back, bracing his hands on the arms of his chair as he smiled faintly. "Besides, I like you, and I sense that I can trust you." Innowen looked at the ring in Minarik's palm as he considered such an unexpected proposal. He liked Minarik, too. There was a bond between them. He'd felt it from their first meeting. Was it because they both loved the Witch? Was she the thread that drew them together? It was as if Minarik knew his thoughts. "I don't blame you for loving her," he said gently. "She makes you love her. Not just you, either, but all men. It's like a power." He took the ring between his thumb and forefinger and held it out. "Take it," he urged. "Wear it, and be my son." Son. Drushen had never called him that. Innowen repeated the word several times in his mind, trying it on. He had never called anyone father before, either. Drushen had been Drushen. Son. He liked the sound of it. He bit his lip, trembling with excitement as he extended his hand. Minarik took it and slipped the band on his finger. "Son," he said aloud. The sunlight glinted brilliantly on the ring. It was gold and exquisitely worked, fashioned in the manner of a bird whose wings enwrapped his finger. Father, Innowen thought, trying that word out, but he couldn't quite bring himself to speak it. "Wherever you go in Ispor, that ring will be .recognized," Minarik said, "and in many of the surrounding nations the great nobles will know it. I ask only that you wear it with honor." Innowen turned it on his finger, studying the careful workmanship, the detail of feathers, the textured breast, the tiny fierce eyes. Almost, it seemed to breathe upon, his finger, and he felt its warmth. But it's only metal, he told himself, and Minarik's warmth from wearing it. "You'll find the Witch," the Lord of Whisperstone said, "then you'll come to me and tell me where she is." He hesitated, observing the stillness that suddenly filled Innowen, and the mistrustful expression that flickered over his face. "I would not hurt her," he added. "I promised you that. Trust me. But like you, I need to know." Innowen thought for a long time, and Minarik did not break the silence. "I'll find her," he said at last, "for both of us. But first, you'll teach me things. I'll have to learn to ride, and you'll have to teach me at night. There are other things, too. There's much I have to learn about the world outside of Shandisti." He ran his palms over his thighs. "And my legs. Even at night I have trouble walking. These are sticks, twigs, but not legs. It's the Witch's magic that makes me walk, otherwise these wouldn't support me. Help me put some muscle on them." Minarik grinned. "I think I'd better get used to sleeping days." "You were used to it once," Innowen said, "when you rode from Whisperstone every night to meet your secret lady." He leaned suddenly forward. "You know her name, Minarik," he whispered intensely. "Tell me her name!" _________________________________________________ 54

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_________________________________________________ A mask of stone would have betrayed more emotion. Minarik regarded him evenly, his face half in shadow as the sunlight streamed down through the latticed roof of the gazebo. "We love the same woman!" Innowen insisted. "Give me a name to call her by!" Minarik slowly rose. "Wear my ring with honor, Innowen, as my father wore it, and his father." He nudged one of the goblets with his sandaled toe. It rolled across the floor and stopped against a soggy meatcake. "I'll send for servants to return you to your room. You'll want to rest before we start your education." He turned his back and started to leave. Then he stopped. Without turning, he spoke once more to Innowen: "Taelyn talks too much." There was pain in those last words, too much pain. Innowen relented and lowered his head. He didn't watch as Minarik left him, but twisted the ring around and around on his finger, and listened to the sound of retreating footsteps.

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CHAPTER 5 A TEPID NIGHT wind blew Innowen's long dark hair back over his bare shoulders. It played over his body, teased his berry-brown nipples. It caressed him with a lover's warmth, and he lifted his head higher as it kissed his throat, swirled down his chest and belly. Pulling back on his reins, he brought his mount to a halt. Beside him, Razkili did the same. "What's wrong?" his companion asked, deep-voiced. Innowen stared ahead into the rich darkness. The horizon formed a gently rolling shadow upon the yawning starlit sky. His gaze trailed upward through the moonless heavens until he found the Crown of the Gods, the brilliant milky band that stretched from one end of the nighted earth to the other. He closed his eyes and listened, expecting stillness. The wind made a delicate rush in his ears. "Nothing," he answered Razkili. He drew a deep breath. The air smelled fresh, as it must have on the first night of the world. "I've missed Ispor." "It's always good to come home," Razkili said with a nod. He glanced back at their pack horse, dismounted, and ran a quick check on the animal. Satisfied, he climbed upon the bare back of his own horse. They rode on. Innowen eyed the darkness, leading the way with a sureness that would have amazed a day-dweller. That towering silhouette on his far left, that was Razor Mountain, so named for its sharp peaks and sheer walls. Passing it, they arrived at the bank of the River Semene, Ispor's longest river, which flowed from a spring in the more distant Akrotir Mountains. He smiled to himself as he steered his horse down a grassy slope and waded its shallow black waters. Razkili spoke little as they rode, trusting Innowen unquestioningly to know the way. His gaze swept from side to side as he kept pace beside Innowen, but sometimes it turned upward to study the blaze of stars. Just beyond the river at the edge of the Plain of Kenay, Innowen stopped again. He sniffed, rode forward a few more paces, stopped, and sniffed once more. Razkili came quietly up on his left, tightly gripping his reins and the packhorse's lead line. The look on his face was question enough. "Blood," Innowen answered softly, warily.

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_________________________________________________ "How can you smell blood?" his comrade asked, even as his right hand settled on the pommel of the sword he wore on his left hip. "How can you not?" Innowen countered in a whisper as he searched the darkness ahead. "There's a lot of it." They pushed on slowly. The night no longer seemed so friendly and welcoming. Despite the warmth of the wind, a chill crept up Innowen's spine. The smell of death hung in the air. Razkili, too, began to notice it, and he wrinkled his nose. "Stop," Innowen said abruptly. Razkili obeyed without comment. Innowen's gaze swept the ground. He swung a leg over his horse's head and slid to the ground, but he clung to its reins, hesitant. He touched Razkili's right knee and passed them to him. Alone, he walked on. He nearly tripped over the first body. Kneeling, he ran his hands over cold naked flesh, finding a sword still clenched in a lifeless fist. A few paces on, he found another body, then another, all naked. But the next one wore a breastplate of finely crafted leather, and upon its head was a helm of bronze. Innowen straightened as Razkili rode up beside him, leading the horses. They exchanged looks, but no more. His friend dismounted, and side by side they wandered over the plain. Corpses and weapons littered the ground. In some places, the dead lay piled upon each other. Most were naked footmen, but here and there, they found an armored officer or nobleman. Innowen picked up the shaft of a lance whose bronze point had broken away. Leaning upon it, he looked slowly around and let go a long sigh. Suddenly, he dropped the broken weapon and stared at his hands. A cold, black, viscous substance covered his palms. Blood, he knew, from some dead warrior. He wiped his hands on the front of his short kilt until they were white again. Yet the stickiness remained. "Terrible," Innowen whispered. "You've seen battle before," Razkili reminded curtly, his gaze sweeping the darkness. It was true. There was little he hadn't seen in his travels, he sometimes thought. Small skirmishes, major conflicts, or tavern brawls and alley murders. Death came in many guises and for many reasons. He had learned that much. Still, this time it was different. This was his homeland. He rubbed his fingers together, wishing for water to wash them clean. "Not in Ispor," he answered quietly. "These are my people." He bit his lip as he reclaimed the reins of his mount. Standing beside him, Razkili touched his shoulder in sympathy. "What's happened?" Innowen asked, unable to keep the note of pain from his voice. He shook his head before he swung a leg up over his horse's back. Leaning on the animal's withers, he shook his head again. "I've been gone too long."' Razkili also mounted. "Or maybe you've come home too soon," he said with an air of foreboding. "None of your Osiri philosophy, Rascal," Innowen muttered. "Not now." Razkili shrugged and nudged his horse forward. _________________________________________________ 57

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_________________________________________________ They left the battlefield behind and rode toward a range of hills. The wind fell silent. A strange stillness hung over the land. Even the steady clip-clop of their horses' hooves was muted by the thick grass and the soft dust. The smell of death, though, did not relent. It hovered in the air, clung to their hair and clothing like a cheap and sickly incense. Innowen fixed his gaze on the low, dark peaks ahead and tried to ignore it. Neither of them saw the men that suddenly leaped up at them from the ground. The breath rushed out of Innowen as arms encircled him and flung him from his horse. He struck the earth, flat on his back, numbed. Hands grabbed at him, pinned him down. A great weight dropped on his chest, a knee, he thought, and a fist crashed against his face once, twice. He tried to focus on the face of his attacker, but his vision blurred. A third time the fist smashed down, and Innowen let out a dull cry, barely clinging to consciousness. A scream sounded close to his ear. The weight toppled from his chest, and he was free. He gulped for air and tried to sit up. The clang of clashing blades rattled through him like thunder. Prone on the ground beside him, a huge man groaned and stirred, and his eyes fluttered open. Innowen determined at a glance that it wasn't Razkili. One of his attackers, then. He locked his hands together and slammed them with all his might against the man's nose. Bone broke, and black blood gushed out. The man shrieked and shuddered, and went still. Innowen jumped up, pushing the pain in his jaw to the back of his mind. He quickly spied Razkili as his friend lashed out with his short blade and drew a dark line across a foe's unprotected bicep. Another figure ran up behind Rascal and raised his own sword to strike. Innowen gave no shout of warning, but leaped and drove his sandaled foot into the attacker's ribs. The air whooshed from the man, and he sagged to one knee, looking up just in time to catch Rascal's sword across his face. Innowen whirled, trying to determine the number of their foes. Too late, he saw the dim flash of a pommel as it rushed at his head. He flung up his arms to ward off the blow. Still, it grazed his skull, and he fell sideways, catching himself on his hands. A foot smashed into his belly. With a gasp, he flipped over and sprawled face downward on the ground, his mouth suddenly full of dust and the acrid tang of his own vomit. From the corner of one swollen eye he saw Razkili go down under the weight of three men. One trapped his arms from behind, while two more wrenched away his sword and caught his legs. Together, they lifted him and slammed him on the ground with bone-jarring force. Then they fell on him, pinning him down as they pummeled him. The Osiri cursed and spat and kicked until the blows took their toll. Finally, Razkili went limp. Unable to move, Innowen watched horrified as two of them then pulled Rascal up and held him between them, while the third continued to beat him. He let out a weak moan, hoping to draw their attention, but the answering kick to his head came from behind, from a foe he couldn't see. His chin snapped forward against his chest, and a red fire exploded inside his eyes. Slowly, the fire faded, but the blackness that came after it was deeper and colder than any night he had ever known.

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_________________________________________________ Innowen awoke to a painful throbbing in his head. His face felt swollen twice its normal size, the skin stretched much too tightly. The sharp taste of blood yet lingered in his mouth, and a tooth wobbled dangerously when he touched it with his tongue. Gradually, another pain penetrated his fogged brain, and he discovered that his hands were tied behind his back. The ropes bit cruelly into his flesh, and there was little sensation left in his fingertips. He opened his eyes and knew a moment of fear when nothing focused properly, but gradually his vision sharpened. Razkili's face was a mere hand's breadth from his own. He winced as he saw the damage to his friend's features. Rascal's eyelids were horribly swollen, and a red, crusty cut made a half-moon over one brow. His lower lip was puffy and blue. Streaks of blood had clotted in his handsome black beard. Tears of anger burned in Innowen's eyes. What was happening in Ispor? What had he led Razkili into? He rolled stiffly onto his back and surveyed his surroundings. A tent roof rose over him. A small campfire in the center of the dirt floor provided light and heat and shed smoke that rose through a hole in the roof. There was nothing else at all in the tent, no furnishings, no supplies, nothing to help him get loose. Frowning, he lay still for a moment and listened. There were sounds beyond the tent. Voices. Different voices, some close, some muffled and farther away. He couldn't distinguish many words, yet he grew sure he was in some kind of encampment. He remembered the battlefield he and Rascal had crossed, and he cursed himself as he wondered which side he had blundered into. He drew his knees to his chest and worked his bound hands past his hips, down to his ankles and over his feet. He was still tied, but it was far easier to maneuver with his hands in front. He crawled to Razkili's side. "Rascal?" He kept his voice to a low whisper. Since someone had taken them prisoner, it seemed reasonable to assume a guard might be close by. "Rascal?" he said again. The Osiri didn't move. Innowen wiggled closer still, and drew the tip of his tongue over the cut on his friend's brow. The taste of Rascal's blood was no less bitter than his own, but he didn't stop until the wound was clean. A faint moan issued from Razkili's throat. Innowen whispered his name again. One eye peeled open. Its black pupil drifted slowly around until it settled on Innowen's face. It took another moment still for the glaze to lift and recognition to come. "Alive?" Razkili managed weakly, daring to crack a grin. "Unless the underworld is a tent with a campfire," Innowen answered. He sat up, and though his clumsy fingers tingled and trembled with the effort, he untied the ropes that bound Razkili's wrists. His friend breathed a sigh of relief as his freed hands fell to his sides. Then the one eye closed, and Razkili went limp again. Innowen watched for long moments, full of worry. There was no more he could do for the Osiri. At last, he moved into a corner away from the crackling fire and went to work on his own bonds with his teeth. He was nearly free when Razkili lifted his head from the dust and looked at him. "Let me," he said thickly, and he pressed himself up on his hands and knees and crawled to Innowen's side. Although there was little left to do, Innowen held out his hands while Rascal fumbled over the last of the knots. _________________________________________________ 59

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_________________________________________________ "What now?" he said when his wrists were free. He rubbed and massaged the raw chafings, easing his pain only a little by wetting the marks with his saliva, trying to ignore the fire of blood returning to his fingertips. Razkili poked his head carefully through the tent flap and looked out. Quietly, he crawled back to Innowen. "We wait," he answered. "We're in the gods-damned middle of an army camp from the looks of things out there. We can run for it and probably get cut down—" "Or we can hang around and find out what in all the hells is going on in Ispor these days," Innowen finished. Outside, something rustled on the tent's crude fabric. Innowen made a grab at their discarded bonds as the entrance flap whipped back. He shot a look at Razkili and hid his hands behind his back. Razkili did the same. He wiggled up against the tent wall, drew his knees close, and hoped their captors weren't too observant. Three men in dirty, ragged kilts and cloaks filed inside. Two grasped swords with short, leaf-shaped blades, which were badly nicked and in need of whetting. They positioned themselves on either side of their third companion, a tall man with features like hard stone and eyes that glittered in the firelight. Innowen dared to meet his gaze and shuddered. The man's hatred stung him like a tangible force. He feared suddenly for Razkili and for himself. "Get up," the man said, his voice gruff and unpleasant. Innowen obeyed awkwardly, using just his legs with no help from his hands, trying to maintain his charade. Razkili rose more adroitly, but carefully kept his hands hidden behind his back. "I am Innowen, son of Lord Minarik," Innowen said slowly, measuring the effect of his words. He knew at once he'd made a mistake. The man he faced glared at him. Then, a terrible smile revealed his small, broken teeth. "Well then," he answered with an unnaturally silken purr, "when I am done with you, I'll know where to send the pieces." Rascal stiffened. For a moment, Innowen feared his friend would do something stupid. He took a small step closer to the fire, at the same time putting himself in Rascal's path. "Who are you?" Innowen asked, trying to appear reasonable. "What do you want with us? I've been gone a long time, you see. Is Ispor at war?" Harsh, bitter laughter shook the tent. "The spy dares to interrogate his captors, does he?" The two guards imitated their leader, adding their own laughter. "Then know that it's Chohlit who holds your life like a grape on the palm of his hand." He brought his nose right next to Innowen's and glared. "Too bad I don't like grapes," he hissed. Stepping back, he turned to one of his men. "Drag them outside." "You don't have to drag us," Innowen said, giving up his pretense. He held out the thongs that had bound his wrists and dropped them in the fire. "We're not spies." Chohlit's face darkened with anger; his right hand curled into a fist. Innowen tensed and prepared to duck a blow, but Chohlit whirled suddenly on one of his own men and knocked him to the ground. His rage did not abate so swiftly, though. He kicked the fallen soldier twice in the ribs, hurling curses and epithets with each blow. "Fool!" he railed. "I told you to tie _________________________________________________ 60

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_________________________________________________ them tightly. Again and again you fail me. You should be dead out there on the field, and some soldier worth a spit here in your place." Chohlit glared as his minion rolled over weakly. The poor man clutched his side and gasped, unable to draw breath. Still, he tried to scramble to his feet, afraid of his leader's wrath. When he rose shakily to attention, his face was a pale mask. Innowen shot a look of warning at Razkili and put himself even more directly in his friend's path. It would be foolish, probably fatal, to attack Chohlit in the middle of an armed camp. Stay alive, he thought. Wait for an opportunity to escape. This, though, wasn't it. He turned his attention back to Chohlit and watched him warily, wondering what demons drove such a man. "You were wise not to make a break," Chohlit said, meeting Innowen's gaze. His eyes were clouded with deep shadow as he looked across the fire, and yet the black pupils caught and reflected the flicker of the flame. "I would have caught you and hamstrung you and hung you by your heels." "Over hot coals to roast slowly, no doubt," Razkili said suddenly. A smirk parted his bruised lips ever so slightly as he stepped away from Innowen. "You're the type. No imagination." Chohlit's eyes narrowed to angry slits. Plainly, he didn't like to be mocked. He looked back at Innowen. "So, your puppet can pull its own strings. Good, there will be two voices to answer my questions, and if the answers don't agree we'll see if you can scream in harmony." Razkili spat into the fire. "It takes a brain to appreciate good harmony," he answered, drawling his words. "But maybe we'll squeak a little for you. That should be enough to satisfy your musical sensibility." Innowen shot an appalled look at his friend, trying to warn him to silence. Razkili ignored him, instead folding his arms and grinning at their captor with wry amusement, running his gaze up and down Chohlit and shaking his head. "I've known men like you before," he continued tauntingly, `on their backs with their feet fluttering in the air like birds." Chohlit clenched his fists; his lips drew into a thin red slash. He took a step toward Razkili. "Rascal!" Innowen started. "Shut..." "Five copper selats a night they cost," Razkili added. "What's your price, soldier?" Innowen's breath caught in his throat as Chohlit faced Razkili. The Isporan towered over his Osiri friend, more than a head taller. Innowen watched in apprehension as the two locked gazes, Razkili still grinning his irritating grin. Chohlit's huge arm rose with casual confidence, and his open hand rushed down. "No!" Innowen shouted. Razkili leaned away ever so subtly. His left hand came up, brushing Chohlit's descending right with just enough force to spin the bigger man around. Razkili's fingers clamped on Chohlit's windpipe as he kicked the Isporan's ankles. Both men fell to the ground exactly where the Osiri intended, and his hand shot out toward the fire. An instant later, a flaming brand hovered near Chohlit's eyes. "Drop them!" he hissed at Chohlit's guards as they _________________________________________________ 61

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_________________________________________________ brandished their swords. So swiftly had their leader gone down, the two hadn't even moved. "Drop them!" he ordered again, `or I'll roast this pig!" One of the two, the man Chohlit had beaten, looked willing to pay the price. He swung his sword up, his face a deep grimace, his teeth clenched angrily. But the second guard caught his wrist, jerked the blade from his hand, and tossed it on the ground beside his own. Chohlit tore at the hand on his throat. He raked his nails deliberately on Razkili's unprotected flesh, drawing blood, but the Osiri only tightened his grip. Chohlit groaned and gurgled and tried to scream. Razkili leaned all his weight onto his hand, shutting off even a croak. Then he bent down and whispered in Chohlit's face. "Scratch me again, and I'll burn the gods-damned eyeballs out of your sockets! You understand?!" Chohlit's face looked like a swollen purple fruit. The veins in his temples throbbed visibly under the skin, and his eyes bulged as he stared at the menacing brand. Gradually, he let go of Razkili's wrist and lay perfectly still. Razkili, in turn, eased off the Isporan's windpipe. "Pick up their swords," he said to Innowen. Swiftly, Innowen scooped the weapons from the dirt and took a position behind the two guards. He pressed the bronze points hard against their spines. "Hells, what kind of a rag-tag army is this?" Razkili cursed, looking up at his friend. "We've got to sneak out of here, and damned quick!" "How?" Innowen said simply. Razkili frowned. "Don't look at me. I've done my part." He gestured at Chohlit with the brand. "It's your turn to think of something." "Thanks," Innowen answered wryly. "I would rather have tried to talk our way out." Razkili held the brand a bit higher, spilling more light onto Chohlit's features. "Does this look like the face of a reasonable man?" he asked sarcastically. Innowen bit his lip. Then he tapped one of the two guardsmen on the bare shoulder with the flat of a sword. "All those bodies we found at the edge of the plain," he said. "It was some kind of battle? Is Ispor at war?" The soldier looked to his leader for permission to answer, but Chohlit's face was swollen and screwed with pain as he sucked for the little air that Razkili allowed him. At last, the soldier shrugged. "Civil war," he answered bluntly. Innowen's jaw dropped. "Rebellion against Kyrin?" he said, incredulously. "Who would dare?" "These days?" the soldier answered with a smirk. "Who wouldn't? The man can't scratch himself without making an enemy. And everybody seems to have an army. That battle? We don't know who they were. They just came at us, no banner, nothing. It's dog eat dog, I tell you." "Innowen," Razkili said impatiently. "Time to go." Innowen drew a deep breath. He looked aside for an instant, then savagely smashed the

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_________________________________________________ pommel of his right-hand sword against the temple of the guard who had remained silent. That one fell with a groan face down in the dirt. He turned, ready to strike the second man, but the soldier held up his hand for mercy. "I answered your questions, didn't I?" he said reasonably. "Suppose I just agree not to call out?" "I trust you," Innowen answered, and he looked to Razkili, who nodded. The soldier grinned as he lowered his hands, and Innowen hit him with all his strength. "Like hell, I trust you," he muttered, gazing down at the sprawled form. He gestured at Chohlit with the point of a sword. "What about him?" A wicked smile spread over Razkili's face as he looked down into Chohlit's eyes. "Time to die," he whispered, and his fingers dug into the soft flesh around the windpipe. Chohlit's already bulging eyes widened with pure terror, and he made a faint gasping wheeze. Too late, he grabbed for Razkili's wrist. In only a moment, he went limp. "Dead?" Innowen asked. Rascal shook his head. "Just out," he answered. "But I bet he'll be surprised to wake up in this world." He grinned unpleasantly. "He had that look in his eyes at the last minute, you know? His whole life flashed before him." Innowen gave him one of the swords. "I think you enjoyed that." Razkili winked. "Take your pleasure where you find it." "More philosophy," Innowen mumbled with mock distaste. "Spare me." "I might." Razkili answered, nudging Chohlit with a toe. "But he won't. I suggest we leave." Carefully, they crept to the tent flap and peeked out. Razkili hissed between his teeth. A dozen fires burned in a wide circle. Bare-chested, kilted warriors moved in twos and threes, talking in low voices, chuckling over unheard jokes. Beyond the immediate clearing, smaller fires burned, and tents dotted the dark landscape as far as could be seen. "It's still your turn," Razkili whispered. "Thought of anything yet?" Innowen shrugged doubtfully. "Run?" he suggested. Razkili pursed his lips tightly. "Let's try the back way," he said. They lowered the tent flap," stepped over their unconscious former captors, and knelt down. Innowen drew the edge of his sword through the thin tent fabric. "We're lucky someone didn't see our silhouettes through this stuff," he muttered. "That fire's bright enough to show everything we're doing in here." He tugged open the slit his blade had made and peered out. Tents and campfires surrounded them, but there were fewer men awake and no brightly lit clearing to cross. "Run?" Innowen said again. "Walk," Razkili corrected. "Just like we belong here." They glanced at each other for a long moment. Razkili's dark eyes glimmered in the firelight, the sockets made deeper and more

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_________________________________________________ shadowy by the red glow. Beads of sweat gleamed in the valleys of his throat and chest, and his lips parted slightly. Innowen could almost taste the tension his friend tried so hard to hide. Excitement, Rascal would call it, and thrill. And if they got out of this and lived, Innowen thought, he might even agree. "What's wrong?" Razkili whispered. "You have a peculiar look." "I was thinking about the horses," Innowen answered. "Especially the pack horse. I'll regret losing the contents of those bags." He forced a half-hearted smile, then crawled through the rip into the warm, open night. Razkili followed, and they stood up. Side by side, they walked with their short blades pushed through their belts. They avoided the campfires that might have illumined their faces and kept their sandaled tread as soft as possible on the dry, flattened grass. They muttered to each other in low voices, meaningless words, mostly, spoken for the benefit of the ragged men they passed, men whose kilts were little more than scraps tied around their loins, men without sandals, men whose rib bones showed through their skin even in the dim firelight. "These men are half starved," Innowen murmured to Razkili. "Farmers and shopkeepers. Not professional soldiers at all." "Don't be fooled by their clothes," Razkili advised sternly. "Look at their weapons. And look at their eyes; they're full of anger. There's no love here for your King Kyrin, and no man hates as much, or fights as hard, as a hungry man." Suddenly, the shrill note of a horn rent the camp's quiet. Shouting rose from the clearing and quickly spread among the tents. Innowen started to run, but Razkili caught his arm. "No," he said. "They'll expect us to run. Instead, move with purpose and authority, and draw your sword, as if you were hunting for escaped prisoners. Not all of these men could have seen our faces." The camp came alive. Three men rushed toward Innowen and Razkili, but Razkili bent around the corner of a tent, pretending to search. "Not here!" he called, waving the soldiers on with his sword. "Try that way!" Innowen watched the three disappear around another tent, then let go a breath and touched his friend's shoulder. "Between us, I'd rather run for it," he confessed. "My knees can't knock when I run." Keeping up their pretense, they made it past the last row of tents. They had steered a course away from most of the searchers, until the open plain stretched before them. But far to the left, voices were drawing closer. "Now we run," Razkili said, and he gave Innowen a push. Innowen ran as fast as he could, and the wind rushing by his ears became a cry of desperation. He threw back his head and sucked air in great regular gulps. The pounding of his heart and the roar of his blood made a thunder in his ears so loud he feared his enemies could hear it. The land rose and fell to meet his tread. It rolled beneath him, lifting him gently, dropping unexpectedly. Each step was a precarious balancing exercise in the darkness. By his side, Razkili ran easily. The sweat-sheen ignited strangely on his bare chest, his arms, on his back and his pumping legs. The moon had come up, a thin slash in the black heavens, _________________________________________________ 64

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_________________________________________________ and he glowed with its faint light. His hair made a black wake as he ran, and muscles flowed like a thick, hot liquid beneath his skin. Innowen's breath came even more quickly as he watched Razkili. An odd burning filled his eyes. It spread down his cheeks to the corners of his lips, over his tongue and the roof of his mouth, down his throat. The burning went all through him, setting fire to all his muscles. Then a moment of vertigo seized him, and he tumbled through nothingness head over heels until the earth reached up and caught him. Innowen felt Rascal's ragged breath hot in his ear as his friend knelt down beside him. "Get up, Innowen!" He grabbed Innowen's arm and tried to drag him to his feet. "Get up, come on!" Innowen heard it in those words, the barely concealed note of fear that masqueraded as bravado, the tight control barely maintained in Rascal's voice. Rascal would deny it. Probably, he didn't even know it was there. But Innowen heard it, and because he heard it, he clasped his fingers around his friend's bicep and let himself be pulled up. For an instant, they stood close enough to feel each other's heat; then they ran. Behind them, though, he heard the pounding of horses' hooves and knew they had been spotted. Innowen poured all his will into his limbs, but the jagged edge of fatigue ripped at his chest, and breath came in desperate gasps. A red film seeped around the borders of his vision. Still, he didn't slow down, though he felt as if all his body were drawing into a smaller and smaller core, diminishing with every agonizing step. Run! The word beat through his brain like a cadence. Run! A pair of horses raced by them, turned suddenly, and stopped, cutting them off. Their riders leveled lances with polished, leaf-shaped points of bronze. Quickly, another pair of riders flanked them. Innowen spun about, frantically seeking a clear direction, but more of Chohlit's men surrounded them. He stumbled, fell, and the sword spun from his grasp. He got up again and ran, actually managing to dodge the lances of the two blocking his way as he darted unexpectedly between their horses. But he heard their taunts and shouts as they rode down on him. Something stung him sharply across the back. The flat of a blade, he realized through a haze of pain. He nearly fell again. Somehow, though, he propelled himself onward. Rascal, where was Rascal?! He cast a glance around. A rider dashed by him, turned suddenly, and stopped. Innowen bounced off the animal's shoulder and struck the ground. Before he could move, a lance flashed down and embedded in the earth barely a hand's width from his groin. Innowen scissored his legs and knocked the shaft into his hands as he rolled sideways and got his feet under him. Rising, he swung upward with the blunt end. The blow caught a soldier under the chin. The -man tumbled from his horse with a surprised grunt. Innowen didn't know if it was the man who'd thrown the lance. He didn't care. There were far too many to pick and choose. He whirled and struck again, but instead of finding a man, the bronze point bit deep into a horse's throat. The beast screamed and reared, but its rider clung on. There was no time to finish that one off. Others were on him. From the corner of his eye he saw Chohlit astride a great steed, directing his men with angry shouts and curses. Innowen _________________________________________________ 65

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_________________________________________________ could spare him no more attention though. The lance became a blur in his hands as he spun it end over end, deflecting a sword that whistled down at his head, and striking the kneecap of its wielder. Any scream was cut short as Innowen followed through and crushed the man's unhelmeted skull with a blow that flung him from his horse. Then something exploded in the top of Innowen's head. White hot stars burned holes in his vision, and pain raced the entire length of his spine. His knees gave way, and the lance fell from hands suddenly unable to grip. A smaller explosion sent numbness crawling through the right side of his face and down his neck. A third between his shoulder blades blasted the air from his lungs. The ground raced up at him with startling speed, and dirt and grass filled his open, gasping mouth. Someone rolled him over, and he saw Chohlit once again. From his horse, the man barked a series of orders, words Innowen couldn't quite understand for the ringing in his ears. Two soldiers approached from the right, dragging Razkili awkwardly between them. Innowen found breath, and managed to raise up on one elbow. Before he could do more, rough hands seized him and hauled him to his feet. Chohlit slid down from his horse. With a satisfied smirk, he grabbed Razkili by the hair and jerked his head up so that they were eye to eye. Razkili's face twisted in pain, and his cry was a knife that stabbed Innowen's heart. Twice, then, Chohlit lashed out with the back of his hand, and a thick stream of blood poured from the Osiri's mouth. With an animal growl, Razkili tried to kick Chohlit, but the enraged soldier easily sidestepped the blow and threw a savage punch at Razkili's gut. "Hold him tighter!" he directed his two men. Chohlit bent over Rascal. "You should have killed me," he hissed. His hands locked around Razkili's throat. "Now I'm going to finish what you started, just the way you started it." Chohlit's finger tightened slowly. Razkili struggled, his eyes widening with fear. The guards held him with his arms outstretched, his back arched to the breaking point, as Chohlit forced him backward. "Stop!" Innowen cried. With the strength of desperation, he pulled free of the hands that held him. "You cowards!" He had no sword, no lance, no weapon at all, and Chohlit's guards were reaching for him already. But they were killing Razkili! "Damn you!" he screamed. "Damn you all!" Before they could seize him, he flung his arms high and whirled, the toes of his right foot digging deep into the soft ground as he turned. "Bastards!" he muttered furiously. He swept his left leg high in a smooth arch, lunged his weight onto it, and sprang erect again, balanced on one leg, his left foot on his right knee. Tears began to trickle from his eyes, fear for what was about to happen, fear for Rascal and for himself. But they were angry tears, too. The wind seemed suddenly to rise about him, its voice a terrible melody in his ears. He whirled, snapped his head to the right, and rolled a shoulder up, back, down. He paused, looked about, and knew he had them now. Chohlit's soldiers seemed frozen as they watched him. Innowen touched his palms together over his head and slid one hand seductively down the other arm, leaning far to the side as he did. The wind sang a new note, and a timpani _________________________________________________ 66

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_________________________________________________ joined it, the heartbeats, he realized with a horrible certainty, of the men around him. Even Chohlit's eyes were on him now. Innowen met his rapt gaze and poured hatred for the man into his dance. Somewhere behind him, he heard a scream. A body fell across the corner of his vision. He gave it barely a glance but saw the blood that poured from an ugly gash where once a throat had been. With an incoherent shout, another man jumped on the body and hacked it until the bronze blade of his sword bent at an angle and threatened to break. Someone dragged him off the mutilated corpse, but nearby two more men leaped at each other. Innowen didn't care what the quarrels were. It didn't matter. Chohlit still had Rascal in his grip, that was all he knew. So he danced, danced, whirling, taunting with his body, drawing dark designs in the air with his arms, weaving intricate patterns with his hands and fingers, unleashing the power that, even yet, he didn't comprehend, power that frightened and terrified him. Yet for Razkili's sake he didn't shirk away. Slowly, a change rippled over Chohlit's features. His hands unclenched, and Rascal sagged unconscious into a heap at his tormentor's feet. With a snarl, Chohlit kicked him in the ribs and looked for an instant as if he intended to follow it with a second blow. Instead, he balled his fists tightly, lifted them up before his eyes, and stared at them with a look of utter loathing. Without warning, he threw back his head and howled a pitiful sound of such soul-wrenching intensity that it caused Innowen to freeze in midmovement. Stunned, he watched Chohlit fall to his knees, clutch his face in his hands, and weep like a spirit in despair. It was the final crack in the dam of sanity, and chaos surged free. The rest of Chohlit's men turned on each other, and the air vibrated with screams and curses. Then came the clash of weapons. Some, though, would not fight; they fled, wailing, across the open field, pursued by their personal demons. One man ripped away his clothing, took his sword and drew it across his wrists without a whisper or moan, and sat down to watch his life essence flow away. A hideously sublime smile spread across his mouth. Innowen ran to Razkili's side and cradled his friend's head in his lap. A sob broke from him as he gazed around again and realized what he'd done. But he'd had to, to save Rascal. He hadn't wanted to do it. They'd made him. They'd brought it on themselves! "What did you do?" The words were like the sound of a serpent slithering through dry leaves. "What did you do?" Innowen looked up and saw Chohlit. "What did you do to us?" he demanded again, through clenched teeth. He struggled shakily to his feet and drew his sword. Tears brimmed from his eyes, and his face was a mask of grief and pain. He moved toward them, though, lifting each leg and setting it down ponderously as if his feet were huge stones. Innowen looked around frantically and found a blade in the grass close by. He hugged Razkili closer, shielding his friend with his body, and lifted the weapon high to ward off the expected blow. A horn sounded from the direction of the camp. Then another and another. Chohlit hesitated. Beneath Innowen, the ground shook suddenly with the thunder of horse's hooves. A lot of horses, he realized. New screams and shouting drowned the horns. Innowen risked a glance over his shoulder as fire rose from the tents. _________________________________________________ 67

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_________________________________________________ "Damn you!" Chohlit cursed. "I knew you were spies!" "Forget us!" Innowen shouted back. "Save your damned camp if you can. Or your miserable hide, whichever you value more!" Chohlit gave a roar and rushed at Innowen, slamming his sword down. Innowen caught the blow on his own blade. Again, Chohlit struck, without skill or style, and again, Innowen blocked it, but the sheer force of the impact shivered down his arm and shoulder. When Chohlit raised to strike a third time, Innowen moved faster and raked his edge over Chohlit's unprotected shin. The man leaped back with a sharp scream, cut to the bone, blood pouring down his leg. "Get out of here!" Innowen shouted furiously. "Save yourself, man! Where's your precious rebellion if you let yourself get caught?!" Chohlit shot a glance at his burning encampment. Then he looked back to Innowen. Gone were the tears; purest hatred burned in his gaze, and Innowen thought he would attack again. Instead, he turned and ran, but not toward the camp. Across the plain he sped, abandoning his troops to the mercies of whoever had attacked them. Innowen dropped his sword and bit his- lip. Not one of Chohlit's men remained to threaten him. Some were dead, or dying. A few were little more than weeping wretches, hugging and rocking themselves on the ground, moaning words that made no sense. Most had simply run away. "Wake up, Rascal," he urged, bending close to his friend's ear and shaking him gently. "Wake up. We've got to get away, too." But though his chest rose and fell with regular, if shallow breaths, Razkili didn't stir. The flames in the distance made a beautiful glow as they reduced Chohlit's camp to ashes. Silhouetted against the orange light, Innowen saw a band of riders coming his way. He looked around forlornly. Even if there had been some place of concealment, it was too late to hide. Perhaps it was the horses wandering near that had attracted attention. Or maybe, the weird carnage. In any case, there was no point in trying to run. Innowen shut his eyes for a moment and gritted his teeth. He almost regretted what he had done. But Rascal was alive, and that was what mattered. Gently, he lowered his friend's head to the earth, rose, and picked up a lance from the grass. Standing over Rascal, he prepared to meet these new riders. Wordlessly, they made a ring around him, nine in all. Innowen twirled the lance in the showiest pattern he knew, warning enough, he hoped. Then he set the butt on the ground between his feet and leaned on it. He raised an eyebrow questioningly, regarding each of them in turn. One of the riders was dressed differently from the others. He wore the same black kilt and green cloak, but over his bare chest he wore thick plates of gold that hung from chains around his neck and waist. The helm that covered his face also appeared to be entirely gold, and a long horsehair crest flowed from its peak. Innowen addressed him politely, but without timidity. "Neither I, nor my friend," he _________________________________________________ 68

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_________________________________________________ gestured toward Razkili without looking away, "is part of Chohlit's army. We're travelers newly returned to Ispor. They mistook us for spies." He forced a smile. "We thank you for your intervention." "I know well enough you're no spy." The man in gold lifted off his helm with both hands. "Welcome home, Innocent." Innowen stared in disbelief. "Taelyn!" On the ground, Razkili raised up on one elbow, rubbed his neck as he gave Innowen a queer look, and muttered with a doubtful hint of amusement, "Innocent?"

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CHAPTER 6 INNOWEN LAY AWAKE on his cot as daylight seeped through the thin fabric of the tent. Like water evaporating slowly in the sun, he felt the life leave his legs. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the darkness behind his lids might keep the dawn away a few moments longer. He hated the sun, hated the bright blue sky and the light of day. Razkili sat on the ground beside him, watching him, unable to keep the sorrow from his face. He reached out and took Innowen's hand and held it, then lay his head down on the side of the cot. His touch was strangely warm-hot, Innowen thought, like a spark on the verge of becoming fire, and he tried to concentrate on that instead of his legs. Already he couldn't move his toes or bend his knees. He could feel the weight of the woolen coverlet, but little by little even that sensation faded, faded away. "Rascal." He brushed his fingers through his friend's short, dark curls. Razkili looked up, and their gazes met. "It's done." Wordlessly, Razkili slipped his hand from Innowen's, got up, and went to his own cot on the other side of the tent. He turned on his side, his face to the wall. Innowen watched him for a long time, watched the swell and sink of his body as he breathed, the shift of an arm to an easier position, the unconscious bending and straightening of a leg. He couldn't tell, though, if Rascal actually slept or if he just strained for a rest that wouldn't come. Innowen listened for sounds from the outside. Taelyn's camp was unusually quiet. The shuffle of feet as someone passed by, a pair of muffled voices approaching and receding, a cough from the next tent, that was all he heard. Well, it was only dawn. The soldiers would just be rousing. He folded his arms under his head, and his thoughts turned back to Chohlit and the experience of the previous night. He bit his lip, recalling the man who had slit his wrists and smiled about it. Innowen closed his eyes, as if he might shut the vision out so easily, but it remained and wouldn't leave him. Odd, how that soldier had drawn his sword from its sheath so casually, levered it across his veins, and sank so gracefully down. Almost as if he, too, had been performing a dance. And he, Innowen, had been the piper. The dead man might have had a family. Maybe he'd had parents to support. Maybe he'd had just cause for joining an army that opposed Kyrin. How could Innowen know? His only thoughts had been to save Rascal.

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_________________________________________________ He stared at his friend's back. He had done the right thing, the only thing. Yet it felt so bad. He had never ever purposely danced to hurt anyone before, and he knew the images from last night would haunt him for a long time to come. Had he been able at that moment, he might have drawn up into a ball and never come out. Instead, he threw an arm over his eyes. Only in sleep could he hope to hide from the world. He woke to the sound of arguing voices. Razkili stood at the tent flap blocking the entrance. Innowen couldn't see the man beyond, but he recognized Taelyn's barely patient tones. "It's all right, Rascal," Innowen said, rolling to his side. "He knows." Razkili glanced at Innowen over his shoulder, hesitating. Then he shrugged and went to sit on his cot. His surreptitious gaze never left Taelyn, though he leaned back on one elbow and drew a foot up onto the edge, adopting a pose of relaxed indifference. But Innowen was not fooled. He knew Rascal too well and could sense his tension. Taelyn stood for an instant at the threshold and regarded them both. He had never been an easy man to read, Innowen realized, and he suspected that too many years as a slave had taught Taelyn to lock his emotions behind a lot of high walls. Still, he had a fondness for this man who had taken care of him at Whisperstone, and they had become good friends. "How are you feeling?" Taelyn asked Innowen. He slapped his dead right leg and cracked a grin. "I'll be better after sundown." Taelyn rubbed a hand along the dark stubble on his chin. "You both have some pretty ugly bruises. If I'd known Chohlit had you, I'd have ordered the attack sooner." "You might have gotten us killed," Razkili said sullenly. Taelyn cocked an eyebrow and folded his arms. His open stare was not hostile, but it was plain he was drawing some conclusion about the Osiri. "They thought we were spies," Innowen explained evenly, attempting to draw Taelyn's attention back to himself. "We couldn't seem to convince them otherwise." Taelyn pursed his lips, then drew a deep breath and visibly relaxed. For an instant, as he sat down on the edge of Innowen's cot, a heavy weariness showed at the corners of his eyes, there but for a moment, then gone. "I don't doubt that," he said, allowing a careful smirk. "Chohlit's a crazy bastard. Burned an entire village three days ago. Caught every man, woman and child first, tied them up, and tossed them back in their homes before he set the fires. Our Third Army caught up with them yesterday. You said you crossed a battlefield? I was supposed to join up with them before they engaged, but we were delayed by a minor skirmish with yet another bunch of rebels." Innowen nodded. "Chohlit said there were small rebellions all over Ispor. Is Kyrin really so bad a king?" Taelyn passed a hand over his eyes, then leaned back and stared at the tent's rooftop. "He's no king at all. While drought and crop failure plague Ispor, he sits in Parendur fattening himself on everything he can rake in from the locals. King? Bandit chieftain is more like it. But he manages to maintain an uneasy truce with a handful of nobles, though he and Minarik are _________________________________________________ 71

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_________________________________________________ constantly at each other's throats over one thing or another. Only the blood they share binds them together." "How is Minarik?" Innowen asked, reclining. In that same moment, he noticed the leather slave's collar was gone from Taelyn's neck. "And how did you come to command an army? I think things must have changed very much since I left." Taelyn pursed his lips again and looked thoughtful. "Minarik is not himself," he said at last. "The years have weighed heavily on him, Innocent. He seems constantly distracted. I don't know by what." He leaned forward, braced his elbows on his knees, and stared at the floor. With seeming reluctance, he gazed toward Innowen once more. "It started just after you left," he continued. "Something occupies his mind, some secret that he shares with no one. When he's not in the capitol fighting with Kyrin, he spends most of his time alone at Whisperstone pacing his chambers or wandering around the courtyard. When Kyrin ordered the nobles to raise armies and quiet the various rebellions, Minarik obeyed, but he freed me and put me in command as an affront to the king." He allowed a tiny smile to turn up the corners of his lips. "Fortunately, I've proven quite good at it." "We were on our way to Whisperstone," Innowen said, glancing at Razkili. The Osiri still maintained his posture on the far cot as he picked at a hang nail on one finger. Their gazes brushed for a brief moment, long enough for Innowen to know that despite his seeming indifference, Rascal was listening intently to every word and evaluating. Taelyn's weight shifted on the cot. Innowen had to look to realize the former slave had laid a hand on his knee. He tried to feel something, the smallest sensation, the slightest pressure. But there was nothing, only the evidence of his eyes to tell him he had been touched. "What of the Witch?" Taelyn asked quietly. "Did you find her?" Innowen shook his head as he closed his eyes. Her face floated in his memory, shining with a strange light as it did that night she came to him. Her voice whispered on the wind that rustled the thin fabric of the tent. He could hear it now on his small cot, teasing him, tormenting. Dance, my Innocent, dance away the world! Those words reverberated in the dimmest corners of his soul. They worried him, gnawed at the edges of his dreams when he slept. How many times had he tried to shut them out? Yet an echo always remained to haunt him. And from time to time, in the puff of a breeze or the unexpected rustle of a leaf, he would hear her voice afresh. Dance, she said. "I followed every possible clue," Innowen whispered almost to himself. "To the borders of Ispor and beyond. I sailed the Tasmian Sea and wandered as far as the bright new city called Jeriko with all its wonders. I found no trace of her." He opened his eyes, but it was not the tent he saw, nor Taelyn, nor even Razkili. Rather, he saw gleaming walkways and high bastions of white stone that sparkled in the sun, slender columns of infinite grace and beauty, majestic pyramids, all the marvelous things he had seen in his travels. There were blue mountains hung with mist, and oceans, and proud ships with crackling white sails, and deserts that burned and shimmered. Smells rushed upon him as he remembered, and sounds of blustering crowds, of cattle herdsmen, of caravans and camel bells. Of ships' riggings creaking in the lonely night winds. Dance! they all urged him. Dance! He threw an arm over his face, wishing the memories away. "In time," he continued, "I gave up looking for her. I tried, instead, to find her god and to learn more about Him. I visited _________________________________________________ 72

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_________________________________________________ temples and questioned priests wherever I went. `What,' I asked them, `could they tell me of wooden idols and copper nails?" He uncovered his eyes, looked at Taelyn, and forced a smile. "All I got for my troubles was a collection of dolls." Taelyn lifted an eyebrow. "Now, even those are gone. They were bundled on our pack horse when Chohlit captured us. Gods know where they are now." Innowen gave a little shrug as he lay on his back. "Well, it was a peculiar hobby for a man, anyway." A soldier came to the tent entrance with a tray, and a rich odor wafted through the air. Behind him came another man with a small field table under one arm. With a nod to Taelyn, he positioned it in the center of the floor and backed out. The first man set his tray down and prepared to serve. "I'll see to it," Taelyn said, dismissing him. The soldier offered a short bow and left without a word. Taelyn rose and leaned over the table. On the tray were three bowls. Beside each bowl was a steaming, hot cloth. He lifted one cloth, kneeled beside the cot, and carefully wiped Innowen's hands one at a time. The hot moisture felt very soothing. Taelyn used the cloth to massage Innowen's fingers and knuckles, the bones along the backs of his hands, the palms, and the padded areas below the thumbs, even his nails. Taelyn worked patiently, never lifting his gaze from his task. When he finished, he folded the cloth neatly, placed it on the tray, and stood. "Thank you," Innowen said simply. Taelyn took a second cloth from the tray and turned to Razkili, who sat up and started to reach. for the cloth. But Innowen spoke up. "Let him do it," he instructed. "It's our custom. The host washes the hands of his honored guests before eating." Razkili looked dubious but raised one hand. Taelyn wrapped it in the warm cloth and worked with the same careful ministrations he had shown Innowen. It was almost funny, Innowen thought, to watch the petulance melt from Rascal's features. "A very pleasant custom," the Osiri confessed as he held up the other hand for cleansing. Taelyn finished, folding the cloth with the same ritual care and returning it to the tray. He barely passed the third cloth over his own hands, though, before he laid it aside. "There now," he said. "Let's eat." Handing a bowl to each of them, he took his own to the foot of Innowen's cot and began to eat with a wooden spoon. Innowen inhaled the vapors that rose from his bowl, then began to eat also. It was a posset of cooked grains with chunks of pork added, and very tasty. "Well," Taelyn said when they had scraped their bowls clean, "time to break camp." He tapped Innowen's knee again with affection and prepared to get up. "I delayed this long to give you time to rest and to give us this chance to talk." Innowen interrupted, not yet ready to let Taelyn go. "You've changed, old friend," he said gently. "You used to chat the days away. Now your speech is crisp and abrupt. And I remember you used to hate horses, but the first time in five years I see you, you're sitting astride one like you'd always been part of it."

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_________________________________________________ Taelyn shrugged. "The slave has become the commander of his master's army." A distant look stole into his eyes, and the lines in his face briefly relaxed. "I go where Minarik sends me," he said, "do what he tells me. Changed? Maybe. But don't fool yourself, Innocent. I don't. I'm still his slave." He collected Innowen's empty bowl, reached for Razkili's and set them beside his on the table. "You sound bitter," Innowen observed. "Blame it on the times," Taelyn answered wearily. "You'll find lots of changes around here, boy. You won't like them all." Their gazes locked for a moment, and Innowen looked for some trace of the old Taelyn in those eyes. If there was any, then it was deeply buried. "Well." His host rubbed his hands over his plain black kilt. "Time to get moving. I'll escort you to Minarik. With the loss of the Third Army, I have to report for reassignment, anyway." Razkili spoke up suddenly. "Do you think you can locate our horses? Particularly the pack beast with Innowen's things?" "I'll have some men look," Taelyn offered. "We captured most of Chohlit's stock. He'd most likely have put your animals with his." He crossed to the doorway. "We'll march within an hour." He left them then. Innowen looked over at Razkili. His friend had resumed his semi-reclining leg-up position and pretended to examine a bruise on his forearm. He poked and prodded its purpled edge and ran his fingertips over it as if to test its tenderness. Despite the growing warmth of day, Innowen drew his coverlet up to his chest. "Rascal," he said, "what's bothering you?" "Damn thing hurts like all the hells," Razkili answered without looking up, "and I've got a lot more like it just as sore." Innowen let several moments go by. Still, Razkili didn't look at him or say anything. "What's wrong?" Innowen pressed again. Razkili sat up suddenly and reached for his sandals. Quickly, he wound the straps around his calves and tied them. "Nothing," he said at last. He stood up. "I'll go find our horses. Your friend won't know which ones are ours. Maybe I can find the packs, too." He paused at the entrance, bit his lip, then turned around. "Innocent," he muttered. "That's a good nickname for you." Then he too was gone. Innowen frowned as he stared at the waving tent flap. Rascal's footprints were plain to see in the dust at the entrance. Someone else might have thought they belonged to Taelyn or his two men. And some of the prints did. But he knew Razkili's. He knew the shape, the outline. Wearily, he sagged back down on his cot. He hadn't slept enough. Usually, he and Rascal slept the day away and traveled by night. He drew his arm over his eyes again. Gods, how he hated the daylight. A fly buzzed in his ear, lighted on his arm, flew off, and settled on his chin. He swatted it away. The heat grew inside the tent. The bedclothes, damp with his perspiration, clung to him. He turned onto his side, but that was uncomfortable. He returned to his back, but the fly _________________________________________________ 74

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_________________________________________________ was waiting for him. Innowen gripped the sides of the cot and pulled himself to a sitting position. He followed the fly's progress as it circled in the air and finally landed safely away on the other cot. He cursed it and threw a pillow at it. The fly sprang into brief flight, then settled again on the same pillow, as if to taunt him. He envied the tiny creature's mobility. So small and insignificant, yet it could not only walk, but fly, while he had to lean forward with his hands and lift each of his uncooperative legs and drop them over the side of his cot as he twisted the rest of his body around. It was almost enough to make him laugh. How clumsy he was, so clumsy he even managed to ensnare one unfeeling foot in the coverlet and nearly fall off the cot. His loin cloth lay close by on the floor where he'd discarded it when he and Razkili had washed each others' cuts and bruises after their rescue from Chohlit. He bent forward, being careful not to overbalance, snatched it up, and wound it around his hips and through his thighs. His kilt, too, lay close. He wrapped the short strip of soft blue cloth about his waist and pinned it with a delicate Osiri brooch Razkili had given him. Taelyn had said they'd leave within the hour. The least he could do was get dressed and be ready. His sandals proved a bigger problem. He couldn't spot them. He leaned far enough to see over the head of the cot, then beyond the foot. They weren't there. Nor were they on Razkili's side of the tent. Irritably, he levered his hips off the edge and lowered himself to the dirt floor. He might have waited until Razkili returned, but there was a certain pride involved. He let himself fall sideways, twisting as he did, and catching himself on his palms. As he'd suspected, they were under the cot. He drew them out, pushed himself back into a sitting posture, and took a long breath. Then with one elbow hooked over the cot's edge, he began to crawl back up onto his bed. When Razkili appeared in the entrance, Innowen was sitting with hands folded in his lap, sandals laced, ready to depart. Only the dirt on one side of his kilt gave any indication of his travails. Razkili's gaze flickered to it, then back to meet Innowen's. "I found our horses," he said quietly. "Even the packs with your collection. And our money, too, where we hid it in the bottom of our sleeping rolls. I guess Chohlit hadn't had time to search our things thoroughly." His gaze strayed again to the stain on Innowen's garment, and his shoulders sagged. "I would have dressed you." "I didn't need your help." Innowen looked down at his hands. Razkili took a waterskin from a small peg set in one of the tent's cornerpoles. With his back to Innowen, he unstoppered it, but he didn't drink. For what seemed like a long time he stood with his head hung between his shoulders, the untouched container halfway to his lips. At last, he sat slowly down on the edge of his own cot. "It's the first time you've ever hurt anyone deliberately." Razkili's voice was a bare whisper. "You danced and made them watch." "I did it to save you," Innowen answered, matching his friend's soft tone. He wanted to reach out and touch Razkili, but the distance between them was too far. "I didn't know what would happen."

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_________________________________________________ Razkili leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, the waterskin dangling from one hand. "You unleashed their darkest desires." "But I didn't know what those desires were," Innowen insisted. "They might still have killed us. I did what I had to do." Razkili stared at the waterskin and took a drink. "I know," he said finally. He passed it to Innowen, and their fingers brushed. "But they saw you dance." He hesitated, watching as Innowen lifted the skin and swallowed. Then, hanging his head, he murmured, "I want to see you, too." Innowen slammed the stopper back in place. "You can't," he snapped. "I've told you before." "I know," Razkili said again. "Why do you keep asking me?" Innowen leaned forward, gripping the edge of his cot. His eyes burned; his heart hammered wildly in his chest. It frightened him the way Rascal kept reviving this argument. "Why?" he demanded. "You know the danger. You know what happens to people. I won't risk it, Rascal!" Razkili looked at his hands. "I'm sorry," he said thickly. Two soldiers appeared at the entrance. "Taelyn sent us to break your camp," one of them said as Innowen beckoned both of them inside. Razkili rose, and they quickly collapsed his cot. "We'd better get out of their way," Razkili said. "Taelyn promised to bring the horses around." He bent, gathered Innowen in his arms, and carried him outside. Innowen clapped a hand over his eyes to shut out the blinding sun. Even the red glare that squeezed between his fingers was painful. He clenched his lids tightly and pressed his face into Razkili's shoulder. Little by little, he dared to peek out until his vision adjusted and he could bear the light of day. "I hate the sun," he said to his friend. He glanced around. The camp bustled with activity. Most of the tents were already struck. A line of pack animals and supply wagons had begun to form. "I don't see Taelyn," he said. "Let's go find him." "Over there," Razkili managed to point with the same hand that supported Innowen's legs. "He's coming our way." Innowen shielded his eyes from the sun and spied Taelyn leading three horses. "I'm sorry," he quickly muttered in Rascal's ear. The Osiri pursed his lips and gave a small nod. He started walking, bearing Innowen's weight easily. Innowen drew a breath, let it out slowly, and sucked in his lower lip. It was not a dignified way to get around, being carried like a child, but he called up as much dignity as he could, as he always did. It was better than crawling in the dirt. He locked his arms about Razkili's neck and studied him in profile. The sun glinted off his short black curls. Light bent around his brow and nose and chin, lending him a beatific radiance. He was handsome, was Rascal, and tall and strong. Innowen thanked the gods for the day he found him. "I believe these are yours," Taelyn declared. He passed the reins of the three animals into Innowen's hand, and gave a curt nod to Razkili. Innowen recognized their mounts and the _________________________________________________ 76

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_________________________________________________ pack horse. All his bundles seemed accounted for, the sleeping rolls with their money bags, the bags with his dolls, all the little treasures he and Razkili had elected to bring with them to Whisperstone. "We were lucky, Rascal," Innowen said appraisingly. "Let me have a litter brought and hitched behind your horse," Taelyn offered as his gaze drifted over Innowen's legs. "You'll be comfortable, and you can sleep as we travel." "No," Razkili said before Innowen could speak. "That way is for the wounded and the dying. Innocent will ride with me." Innowen glanced at Razkili with an expression of surprise. Razkili looked back at him and grinned. Innowen let go a long sigh of resignation. Some nicknames just couldn't be lived down, it seemed. His chin dropped to his chest for a moment, and when he looked up, Rascal's grin widened, and the powerful arms that bore him hugged him closer. "He can't sit on a horse," Taelyn protested. "He's crippled. There's no feeling in his legs!" "He's not crippled," Razkili answered firmly, his eyes narrowing at that word. "Not while I'm here to be his limbs. Now, come take him for a moment, and hand him up to me after I've mounted. He'll ride in my arms. If he's too much for you to lift, call one of your men." Taelyn frowned disapprovingly, but he stepped forward and took Innowen in his own arms. "Don't you have anything to say about this?" he said with some exasperation. Innowen watched as Razkili took his horse's reins and swung one leg high and over. For a moment, his friend lay flat on the animal's bare back, and he remembered that Rascal was still probably a bit stiff and sore from the beating Chohlit had given him, but then he pulled himself erect and reached down' with one arm. Innowen shrugged and gave Taelyn his biggest smile. "I say, hand me up to him when he's mounted," he told his old friend. "If I'm too heavy for you, then call one of your men." He winked suddenly and put on a mock-serious face. "I never argue with him." "I should drop you, instead," Taelyn muttered as he handed Innowen up into Razkili's embrace. For an instant, Innowen sat sideways on the horse's withers, his balance precarious. Then Razkili twisted and maneuvered him until one leg slipped over the horse's neck, and he straddled the animal like a proper rider. Finally, one strong arm locked around his waist, and he was settled. Taelyn helped keep the horse steady by holding its bridle strap until Razkili had a firm grip on the reins. "Can you manage a lead line on your other two beasts?" he asked Innowen, and Innowen nodded. Taelyn disappeared briefly and returned with a rope, which he passed through the bridles of their other two horses. He handed the line to Innowen. "Now, I've spared enough attention for the pair of you," Taelyn said good-naturedly as he brushed dust from his hands. "I've got an army that needs a little bit of me, too." He turned and pointed to a gathering of mounted soldiers. "You wait with that group forming over there, and I'll join you when we're ready to move out." With that, he left them.

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_________________________________________________ "Ready?" Razkili asked. Innowen settled back, letting Razkili take his weight. He rested one arm over the arm around his middle and let the hand holding the lead line dangle over Rascal's thigh. Their flesh quickly stuck together wherever they touched, for the day was hot, and already, he had a fine sweat. Off to his right, a pair of soldiers stared in their direction and whispered to each other. How, he wondered briefly, had Taelyn explained him to his soldiers? He had walked into camp last night. Now, he had to be carried. He couldn't even ride his own horse. Had Taelyn even bothered to explain? It wasn't important. Let them think what they would. With his free hand, he squeezed the forearm that crossed his belly, feeling the muscle corded beneath the sun-bronzed skin. As if in response, that arm drew tighter about him. He lifted his head, and the slightest breeze brushed his face. "Ready," he answered.

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CHAPTER 7 ISPOR BY DAY was quite different from the Ispor Innowen and Razkili had traveled through at night. Gone were the moonlit mountain peaks and star-speckled rivers, the vast gray and white plains so beautiful in their starkness. Under the sun's searing glare, the land screamed. The grass shriveled into a course brown hair that only grew in clumps and patches. Dust swirled and eddied in the slightest wind. The trees stood like frail and fatigued old men, stooped and twisted, as if even their wilted leaves were too heavy to bear in such torrid heat. The deeper into Ispor they journeyed, the worse were the effects of the drought. Ponds and small lakes lay like dried-up scabs on the earth, leeched of water, the black silt bottoms turned to caked and cracked depressions where fish scales and tiny bones gleamed. Even the larger lakes and streams shrank away from their banks, leaving rings or stretches of mud where clouds of insects droned. Innowen stood outside his tent remembering all he had seen that day. Though night had fallen, the air was still warm enough to cause a few beads of sweat to trickle down the valley of his chest. He caught them on his fingertips and tasted his own salt tang as he gazed into the distance. The tent fabric gave a slight rustle as Razkili slipped out and joined him. "What are you thinking about?" he asked, touching Innowen's shoulder. Innowen let go a long breath and rubbed the ball of his thumb over his lips. "I was remembering that deer carcass we passed," he answered slowly. "It must have died from thirst." He stared toward a faint star that hung just above the horizon. He'd specifically chosen this spot for his tent, on the outer perimeter of the camp, facing away from all the others. It was quieter, more private. It made it easier to steal away when he had to later. "Sometimes I feel like that," he went on softly, "like I'm dying of thirst. Only it's not water that I need. I don't know what it is." Razkili didn't say anything, but his fingers massaged the muscles of Innowen's neck. Innowen leaned his head to the side and closed his eyes, tried to feel nothing at all but the gentle hand doing its work. The wind brushed his nipples, and the dim notes of an unnatural music hovered just at the edge of the night, where only he could hear them. It was almost time. "I have to dance," he said after a long silence.

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_________________________________________________ Razkili's hand continued to massage. "I know." "Walk with me," Innowen offered, "but just a little way." The dry grass made a brittle sound beneath their sandals as they walked through the darkness. Most of the camp was asleep, but as Innowen glanced back over his shoulder, he saw, here and there, the shadows and silhouettes of men who still clustered around a late fire swapping tales, men like himself, he suspected, who belonged more to the night than to the day. He wondered if Taelyn might be among them. The wind nudged gently at his back, and he walked on. Already, the soundless music of the night played clearer in his head. He reached for Razkili's hand, as if his touch might somehow anchor him and hold him back. Yet that wasn't what he wanted. He loved the dance. Only while he danced could he find oneness with the world. Only while he danced could he truly touch the gods. At the foot of a low hill, Innowen stopped and looked back. The low fires of the camp could barely be seen. "Wait for me here," he said to his friend. "Let me come with you," Razkili responded, his voice little more than a whisper, like the rustle of the breeze—a breeze which bore the music that called him. Innowen let go of his hand. "No." He embraced Razkili, then backed away. "Just wait, and I'll know that you're near. You'll be in my thoughts, and my dance will be for you." "But I won't see it," Razkili said, his dark eyes piercing Innowen with a sadness and longing. "The gods will see," Innowen told him. "They'll know it's for you I dance." He climbed the hill alone. The wind touched his face now with a lover's care, and the music filled him. Legs that were useless by day carried him higher toward a slender moon that just crested the horizon. Step by step he made his way, feeling the strength and blood and power that surged in his limbs. Excitement grew, and his breath quickened. At the summit, he did a slow turn. In the moonlight, Ispor had found its beauty again. What could daylight show him, he considered, to compare with such a vista of shadow and darkness and pale luminescence, where every shape and movement took on a meaning and identity all its own, where hills were not hills, but the rounded backs of sleeping gods, where gnarly trees were not mere trees, but the willowy fingers of spirits beckoning men's imaginations? Mystery and subtlety, those were the offerings of the night! He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, as if he could stir the gloom and make it swirl like smoke. On the ground, his shadow in the moonlight made the same motion with its arm as it stretched along the hillside, but to Innowen it looked like an invitation. The wind rushed with a sudden crescendo of music, and he threw back his head. A little cry, like ecstasy, escaped his lips. The heartbeat of the world became a drum that drove him. He drank its rhythm and poured it out again in pure motion. The night melted as all things real and perceivable fused into a music that entered him, penetrated the deepest parts of him, made of him an instrument for its own physical expression. He invented new geometries with the lines of his _________________________________________________ 80

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_________________________________________________ body, angles and curves that only flesh could shape, and time collapsed into a single, pulsing moment. When it was over, he sprawled exhausted on the ground, panting, and dug his fingers into the earth. Though his body rested, his soul still spun to the last diminishing strains. Finally, the music faded away, and the wind was just the wind. He rolled over on his back. The moon hung isolated and lonely in the black sky. Only it wasn't the moon to him now. It was a face, the face of the Witch of Shanalane. Innowen blinked, and the illusion vanished. It was only the moon, after all. He rose, brushed the dirt from his kilt, and looked around for his sandals. He didn't remember removing them, but he was barefooted. A little searching turned them up. He sat back down long enough to put them on and to wrap the soft laces around his calves. At last, he started down the hill. Razkili lay on the grass asleep where Innowen had left him. One arm was folded under his head, and his features were composed with such peace that Innowen was reluctant to wake his friend. Razkili looked like a child when he slept, free from cares or worries. Innowen halfsmiled to himself, and remembering his own nickname, wondered if in slumber he looked half so innocent. "Rascal," he whispered. Razkili's eyes opened. Calmly, he sat up and rubbed a thumb and forefinger over his eyes. A few blades of dead grass were stuck in his short-trimmed black beard and in the curls of his hair. He flicked them away. "I saw you dance," he said quietly. "What!" Innowen's throat constricted with fear, and his hands clenched into fists that he pressed against his thighs. He'd always dreaded that Rascal might break a promise, follow him, and see him dance. He knew how Rascal wanted that. He swallowed uncertainly. "I dreamed," Razkili went on calmly, "and I saw you dance. You said the gods would see you, and they let me see, too, this time, by sending the dream." He closed his eyes as if he could see it all again behind his quivering lids. "You were like a cloud chained to earth, struggling to escape back into the sky." He hesitated. "The chain was your shadow. It wrapped its arms around you and held you down with a will of its own. It kept you from achieving the heavens. You danced, and it danced with you. It was almost like a battle. A beautiful, frightening battle between you," he opened his eyes and looked at Innowen, "and yourself." Innowen gazed toward the summit of the hill where he had danced. Razkili could not have seen him. The distance was too great, the hill too high. So, it was a dream then. Perhaps, as Rascal claimed, sent by the gods. Was a dream enough, though, to satisfy his friend's desire? Or would he want more than ever to see the dance itself? He held out a hand and pulled Razkili to his feet. "You're upset," Razkili observed. "No," Innowen denied, "just tired. We'll reach Parendur tomorrow afternoon." He pointed _________________________________________________ 81

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_________________________________________________ south in the direction of Ispor's capitol city. "Taelyn will want to start early again, so we should try to sleep tonight." "Sleep?" Razkili said with surprise. "You? At night?" "I know," Innowen answered. "But I am weary, and you didn't get much sleep this morning, either. For now, we're traveling with daytimers, so we have to keep their hours." They drifted slowly back toward camp, kicking at weeds, pausing sometimes to stare toward the stars or the sound of some nocturnal creature, or to watch a thin dark wisp of cloud roll overhead. The night grew cooler. Innowen felt the dry salt sweat crack on his skin. "Rascal," he said softly as he swatted his way through a swarm of small winged insects that rose suddenly out of the grass. "Remember what you said about a battle?" "That part of my dream?" Razkili answered. "Between you and yourself?" Innowen bit his lip. He had never forgotten Drushen or what had happened at Whisperstone. Many were the nights he had lain awake wondering what had become of the old man. Drushen had been a father to him. He'd been a friend. Now Innowen didn't know if he was alive or dead. But he remembered a face twisted with terror and shame, and he remembered a despairing cry that haunted him still, sometimes, when he dreamed of Drushen running from his room. He feared what might happen if Rascal ever saw him dance. He had to be careful, had to make sure that never happened. He couldn't bear the thought of hurting Razkili, of watching him run away, too, as Drushen had done. "Innowen?" Innowen snatched a tall, half-dead weed and began shredding it with his thumbnail. "Never mind," he told his companion. "I was just thinking." "Always good to practice a new skill," Razkili quipped. "You should take it up sometime," Innowen said with a grin.

*~*~*

Just before noon, they passed by a small village called Chalandri. The pathetic fields where a few brave stalks of wheat had fought up through the parched ground had not been tended for days. Dead sheep rotted on the hillside. A milk cow half covered with black flies sprawled across a ditch, its throat cut, its blood a dried brown stain on the earth. The wooden buildings had been torched. Here and there, blackened timbers stood at strange angles, looking like thin broken silhouettes that cringed and cowered from the sunlight. Smoke still curled from some of the ashes. Bits of pottery and shattered furniture poked up. A

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_________________________________________________ few stone houses stood, but fire had gutted the interiors, collapsed the roofs, sometimes cracked a wall. Taelyn halted his troops long enough to search the wreckage. It didn't take long. He paced about, stirred ashes with a toe, picked up the splintered handle of a hoe, peered at it, cast it down again. He walked into one of the stone houses. The windows and doorway bled with smoke stains and scorch marks from the heat that had raged inside. Moments later, he emerged carrying a rhyton that was blackened with smoke, yet miraculously intact. He tucked it gingerly under one arm as he continued through the ruins. In the center of the village, he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and gazed up and down the street. Finally, he returned to stand beside his horse. Before he mounted, he gave the rhyton a last examination, crinkled his brow, and dropped it. It broke into three egg-shell thin pieces, which were ground into fragments as he and his army rode over them. It was only pottery, and its materials had come from the earth. To the earth it returned once more. "I didn't see any bodies," Razkili whispered in Innowen's ear as they left Chalandri behind. Innowen leaned his head back on his friend's shoulder and squeezed the arm that was wrapped around his belly for support. He tried to lose himself again in the rhythm of the horse's motion. But the sun had turned his pale skin a sharp pink. He itched where his flesh touched Razkili's, and every sudden bump or jostle brought a new irritation. "Maybe they were alerted in time and escaped the raiders. We'll probably find everybody safe at Sucrebor." They rode side by side with Taelyn. Innowen looked over as he tried again to reconcile his memories of the slave with this new Taelyn, this commander of armies. The man's face was a placid. mask, even as it briefly turned his way. It yielded nothing, and Innowen wondered just how much he truly knew of Taelyn and the things that drove him. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but through the red glare behind his lids, visions came in small snatches. He kept seeing the charred timbers of Chalandri's houses. Like shadows, he thought, leaning and twisted and broken, caught in the middle of a macabre kind of dance. Sucrebor, too, lay in ruin. All down the line, Taelyn's troops fell silent. The smell of death hung in the still air. There were no dead sheep this time, no milk cows. A ragged line of vultures quietly watched them approach, then grudgingly climbed out of the way. "A little healthy exercise between courses," Razkili whispered morbidly, watching the birds wheel and screech overhead as he followed Taelyn through the village square. He glanced down at an unrecognizable mound of shredded flesh that might have been a man or a woman. "We're but an intermission, and the grand banquet will resume." More shadows, Innowen thought, as he stared at the dark, soaring shapes. Ugly birds, they were, yet graceful in flight. They circled without effort, dipped and climbed, changed direction with a careful bend of a wing. A thought came to him, unbidden, that described the way they flew. Another dance. They paused long enough for Taelyn to choose two mounted men to ride ahead as scouts. When the twin gleams of their spearpoints could no longer be seen, he waved to his troops. The march continued, and Sucrebor was left behind. The vultures clacked their reddened _________________________________________________ 83

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_________________________________________________ beaks by way of applause and returned to their supper. Blackened timbers. Black vultures. Innowen couldn't put them out of his mind. The images gnawed at him. They overlapped his view of the landscape as if his eyes perceived two scenes, one through the other. Black as Vashni's armor, as the shadow of the Witch. She had a way of stealing into his thoughts at the oddest times. He wiped an arm over his wet brow, cursing the irritating tingle his touch raised there. He hated the heat, hated the day. Hurry, night, he prayed. The sun beat its way across the sky, burning him and stewing him in his own sweat. The Akrotir Mountains loomed in the south. Taelyn quickened the pace even though most of his soldiers marched on foot. They hadn't made good time. It would be after sundown before they reached the foothills where Parendur nestled. Innowen's spirits lifted a little. "I'll ride into the city on my own horse," he told Taelyn. Razkili ground his bearded chin into Innowen's shoulder. "Ingrate. Tired of my company?" "Not of your company," Taelyn suggested straight-faced, "but maybe of your stink." He wiped sweat from his eyes, then added, "This heat." "Allow me my pride," Innowen said with a faint smile. He brushed his palm over Razkili's arm. "It's been five years since I've seen Lord Minarik. I'd like to greet him on my feet." Before they had traveled much farther, Taelyn's scouts returned. The two raced up, covered with dust and filth, their thighs slick with the creamy lather of their horses. They jerked hard on their reins as they met the front of the line, and their poor steeds wheezed with great labored breaths as their riders made report. Innowen looked at one of the soldiers with particular interest. Veydon, his commander had called him earlier. He was little more than a boy, younger than Innowen or Razkili, though not by much. Yet underneath the grime and sweat was a powerful warrior's body and eyes that sparkled like shards of black ice. They flickered toward Innowen, lingered for just a moment, then darted away. "Parendur is under attack," Veydon told Taelyn excitedly. "There's an army camped right outside the city's gates and signs of an unsuccessful attempt to breach the walls. Kyrin's First Army is manning the ramparts, though, and so far the gates remain sealed." He paused long enough to take a swallow from the waterskin his commander offered him. "Kyrin's First!" Taelyn snorted derisively. "That's no more than the city garrison." He glanced around sharply as some of his men chuckled, then turned back to Veydon. "What foe?" he asked with greater patience. "What are their numbers?" "They fly no banner or flag that we could see," came the answer. "We crawled on our bellies as close as we dared in daylight, but we couldn't tell who they are." Veydon looked thoughtful, then shrugged. "Their numbers are perhaps two thousand men. Cavalry and footmen. No chariots. They've started building siege equipment. Just ropes and ladders, as far as we could tell. Nothing heavier is in place." _________________________________________________ 84

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_________________________________________________ Taelyn frowned as he rubbed a hand over his lips and chin. "Almost four times our number," he muttered. "We camp here, then. Spread the word. No fires. All captains at my tent within the hour." He looked at Innowen. "Afraid we'll have to postpone your reunion, boy. I'll send someone to erect your tent." He pulled on his reins, turned his horse, and rode back along the line. Taelyn's troops worked with astounding speed. In no time, the camp sprang up, and all the horses were tethered at its center. No fires were lit, but hard bread and handfuls of grain were distributed to eat. Four soldiers swiftly erected a tent for Innowen and Razkili and set up a pair of cots. "I wonder what they think," Innowen said as Razkili carried him inside. "They've seen me walk at night." "The soldiers?" Razkili set him down on the cot that was most shaded from the sun. "Who knows what they think? Who cares? The whole camp surely knows their commander thinks highly of you because he treats you with respect and you ride at his side, even if you ride in my arms. And by now, word has probably spread that you're Minarik's adopted son." Innowen nodded. "It bothers me sometimes, though." Razkili put on a patient grin. "You mean all that garbage about being a whole man? That trash you used to spout?" Innowen grinned, too, then hung his head in mock-humility. "You put up with a lot, don't you, Rascal?" Razkili picked up a waterskin one of the soldiers had left. "Wash yourself," he said, pulling the stopper free. He took a quick drink, then squirted a stream that caught Innowen unexpectedly in the face. Innowen sputtered, wiping his eyes. When he could see again, his friend was gone, and the waterskin, stoppered once more, lay at his side. He took a sip, then put the skin aside and sat quietly for a long moment. Slowly, he removed his kilt and unwound his breech cloth. He spread them as best he could over one end of his cot. They were damp with his sweat, but in the heat they would soon dry. He unstoppered the skin again and took another drink, pondering some more before he grabbed the breech cloth back, wet one end of it, and began to clean away the day's grime. When Razkili returned, Innowen was stretched out naked on the cot with his clothes drying at one end. He watched without a word as Rascal, too, began to undress, but his friend dropped his garments on the ground instead of laying them out. Rascal rubbed his nose suddenly. "Smells better in here," he commented. "You took my advice." "It's quiet outside," Innowen said. "What's happening?" "Taelyn's posted a minimum guard and ordered everyone else to get some rest, sleep if they can, until an hour after sunset." He sat down on his own cot and unlaced a sandal. Holding it up, he sniffed it, made a wry face, and cast it into a corner. "He intends to attack the enemy _________________________________________________ 85

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_________________________________________________ army tonight. He invited me to his tent to hear his plan, and it's a good one." Innowen waited until his other sandal was off. "You're going to fight," he said quietly. It was almost an accusation. Razkili looked up and met his gaze. "It's what I do, Innowen." Innowen rose on one elbow. "It's what you used to do! This isn't your battle!" Razkili's eyes narrowed, and one corner of his mouth pulled upward. He drew a breath and let it out. "Taelyn—your friend—is outnumbered nearly four to one. Even if the city's garrison joins the fight, as he's sure it will, that won't balance the odds. I've already offered him my arm. I can't withdraw now." Innowen stared at him. Razkili was resolute, and nothing he could say would change the Osiri's mind. He knew that too well. He sucked his lower lip, considering the pointlessness of further argument. Razkili had been a prince and a soldier, the fifth son of Osirit's king, when they first became friends. The fortune of his birth had earned him an education, a warrior's training, and a captain's rank, but with no position at all to speak of in his father's court, and four older brothers before him in line for Osirit's throne, he had left his homeland to travel with Innowen. Osirit was a long way from Ispor. But Razkili was still Razkili. If he had offered his service to Taelyn, there was no more to be said. And in truth, he could find no fault in Rascal's decision. Quite probably, they both owed their lives to Taelyn. Innowen bit his lip. "Watch your back, then." He sighed as he lay back down and covered his eyes with an arm. Razkili broke the silence that threatened to grow between them. "Look at me," he said cheerfully. "I'm filthy, and I smell, though not quite as bad as you did before you washed. Where's that waterskin?" Innowen opened his eyes and smiled. He'd been using it as a pillow, waiting for his chance. "Right here," he said, unstoppering it. He squeezed with both hands. Razkili gave a yowl, shielded his eyes, and lunged. Laughing, they fought for possession of the skin until Razkili wrenched it away. "Now your cot's all wet," he chided, rising over Innowen. Innowen grinned with satisfaction. "So's yours." "Well then," Razkili said, dropping the skin and sweeping Innowen's kilt and breech cloth to the ground. "We might as well drown in one bed together." He stretched out on his side by Innowen on the narrow cot, folded one arm under his head, and draped the other over Innowen's waist. Neither said anything more. Innowen looked into Razkili's eyes until they closed softly. Then he watched the delicate quivering of the pale veined lids. Breathing was the only sound

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_________________________________________________ he heard. Razkili's chest rose and fell against his. It was warm in the tent, and his sunburn itched where their bodies touched, but he kept still. "You stink," he whispered. "Road cologne," Razkili murmured wearily. Innowen felt the exact moment his friend fell asleep. The arm on his waist suddenly relaxed, and Razkili's face composed itself into a perfect semblance of peace. Dream, Innowen wished him silently, dream the world away. There she was again, the Witch, stealing into his thoughts. Perhaps he shouldn't have come home to Ispor. The land seemed under a curse, and he'd found nothing but trouble. Chohlit, Chalandri, Sucrebor. Now Parendur. And tonight, Razkili would leave him to fight at Taelyn's side. He hated the day, hated the heat and the bright sunlight. Even more, he feared for Rascal. He to